Tower: Century

I built this with my hands, brick by brick, until I could finish it and accept. The garden bed surrounding the base is a visual reminder, it holds various flowers from experienced regions. The gates that lead to the pathway of the tower are also hand made. They proved to be more difficult than I had previously expected them to be. The gates are alive, inside the bars and frame, ghost like human faces. The pathway is a mixture of sand, the jagged bricks of an old world wall, and complimented with shrapnel littering the pathway. The tower itself is nothing  out of the ordinary, or impressive, however its view no matter how many times I have tried, I cannot accurately capture it. Perhaps that is a reason why I enjoy it so, it cannot be touched, only viewed.

The inside of the tower is barren and still. The air inside is usually cold, a delight in blazing Summers, an accomplice to blizzards in the Winter. Over the years, I have had to rebuild this tower, when I had made it originally I didn't take into account the elemental forces. Nor did I take into account my destructive desires. Destruction gives way to creation. A view I've gathered from the tower, along with others I could not imagine of obtaining in my youth. Many would say that solitude is undesirable, I protest this. I believe solitude is needed and has its purpose. Reflection, possibly opening one's mind up to gain a stronger comprehension of wondered concepts and ideas, a personal space that is, untouched.

There is a book I have written in solitude. It doesn't hold anything spectacular, if anything it probably seems trivial. Its pages are lined with ideas, questions, and things that I have found to hold solidly throughout time. It'll be the one thing left behind, it'll survive whatever this tower does not. It will survive where my physical body will cease its service. Possible lingering proof of existence, and collected words of an aged sentry. I'll close this with one request for you who is reading this, look beyond the horizon to see.