The book was thick and black and covered with dust
Its boards were bowed and creaking
I prised the pages wide apart
And heard the sound of speaking
I can’t explain exactly what happened that day. It was surreal, almost as if it wasn’t happening at all, only it was. I heard a voice I thought I knew. You know how when you hear a recording of yourself you hardly recognise your own voice? Well, I suppose that’s what happened then.
I heard the voice, presumably mine; asking the questions I’d always wanted to ask but had never dared to, perhaps because I was afraid of finding out something I’d rather not know, or perhaps because I knew I could never face knowing the truth. But in those few moments I learned the answers to many unanswered questions and several mysteries that I’d carried within me for all those years.
I closed the book and a cloud of dust rose into the air. As I did so I swear I heard the sound of laughter. The sort of laugh that suggests that everything I’d been told was not necessarily the truth.
I tied a ribbon ‘round the book
And placed it on the shelf
Where it will sit until I need
More secrets of myself.