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There’s a document on my computer that I’ve forgotten, but its digital mark is still a scar in my dropbox. Every so often I open it and read the title and the few words I managed to jot down more than a year ago. I try and remember where I was, what I was trying to remember. Every time, the memory slips further from me.

“Are you a peasant or not?” The title says.

“Sitting in a palace overlooking the Duomo” the first line reads, the only line reads.

A mystery typed out by my own hands over a year ago, and I’m sitting here again, still in the shadows, wondering who was a peasant, and why I found the phrase so amusing, or important, or curious. I remember needing to write it down. That’s it. The rest of my world in that memory floats like the mist in Dumbledore’s Pensieve.

“Are you a peasant or not?” I could put it in a fictional story, Dumbledore could even say it if I wanted to, but that’s not why I wrote it down. I don’t write stories for characters, almost never. There are too many interesting people that I know, too many convoluted storylines that I’ve lived through – making up stories would be more difficult.

So it was real, at least it was in a real conversation, and it was something meaningful. Peasants. I haven’t spoken the word out loud since I can’t remember when, maybe that day, when I jotted it down, maybe not, maybe even years before that – if I only heard it. Peasant, the word rung in my head so loud I wrote it down.

Am I a peasant or not? The page asks me.

I don’t know. I certainly feel like one lately, as the world crawls slowly back into a dark cave that certainly seems like the dark days of the middle ages – there were plenty of peasants then. Was it a challenge? A question for me? For society?

I don’t know. I don’t really know the question, and I certainly don’t know the answer – to the question or to why I wrote it down in the first place, but it certainly keeps prodding me every so often. That’s the trouble with thoughts like these for writers. I have so many unfinished sentences, unfinished paragraphs, thoughts, memories. I write down what I can, what I think I’ll get back to, and then I do get back to it, but my mind has decided to wander.

Today was another day staring at a few of my wanderings, and so the question nagged at me again, and I still don’t know if I’m a peasant, and I still am not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing, and I’m pretty positive, that if I ever figure it out, the most epic story is behind it, but until then, I’m just sitting in a palace overlooking the Duomo, waiting for the rest of the words to tumble out of my brain.



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