That old Museum,

It was full of despair.

It was full of what was,

And what had been.

It was full of stale air and old steam engines.

There were photographs latent with jovial faces.

When those pictures were taken,

They were not memories.

Those trains were only little models.

Tiny versions of something so much greater.

Someone took interest in little trinkets;

They devoted their life to inanimate objects.

A hobby gives nothing back.

Making miniatures of railway cars…

It’s just a way to fill the void.

Life is a void.

We live to give ourselves purpose;

Giving ourselves purpose is a reason to live.

And we do things…

We create things,

We spend our entire lives doing things,

Just as a way to fill the void.

That old Museum was a void.

It was like walking into reminiscence.

You can take that recollection,

And press it into a book.

Or honor it in a museum,

But it is still only a memory.

You can try to preserve these things you do,

As some sort of validation,

But if you live your life for validation,

You are nothing.