I wrote a short manuscript many years ago. It was not well structured nor was it intended for anyone else; it was just an expression of something personal. It started with a question from a child deep within me, a question that is as difficult to articulate as it is to answer, and it proceeded to answer the question as best it could. It moved from imagery and words to symbols and algebra, then systems logic and abstract reason, before eventually landing on an almost spiritual note. It was hard to write, but it needed to be written, and upon review it made very little sense.
I later destroyed it. I shredded the pages and threw away the scraps out of fear for how others would perceive me if they saw it. I touched on too many notes, crossed too many silos, and ventured into territory I hold blasphemous to the secular, and irreverent to the cleric, but those were just excuses. I got too close to my own fear and pain, so I destroyed the apparent cause, but I regret that act so much. Those pages were dear to me, and they are gone forever.
I felt sorrow and regret for many years, and even tried rewriting it a few times, but I have never come close. Today I found myself perusing the same question, and where I would have felt regret in the past, today I found a new perspective: It was never about the journey, despite the modern truism that upholds the journey as the focus, for in this case, it was the destination that mattered. At the end of the book, I found myself standing in the same place as every book, a library, nestled within the branches of a tree, with books lining every wall. Intricate wood carvings displayed the history of the library, itself grown from a seed, and a comfortable reading space sat at the centre for a few quiet souls. A brilliant fireplace kept it warm, and a wide window revealed a nearby forest, a distant mountain, and a neverending thunderstorm. In this treehouse library lives every story ever told, every paper ever written, and every letter ever published. It’s quiet here, and it is peaceful.
So, while I cannot replicate the twists and turns of my original journey, frightening and enjoyable as they were, it does not matter, because I no longer go that way. I don’t need to explore metaphysics and mysticism to find this place anymore, I simply have to open the door in my mind and step through. I’m sure somewhere in this library are the seeds to write my book again, but there are so many others to read and so many more paths to take. In the treehouse library there is no need to be frightened or afraid, although some of the books will certainly do that, but that’s the beauty of it: Here all that exists is time to read, space to understand, and an endless sea of books.