Chapter Text
She pulled out a stack of file folders from the box and dropped them onto the carpet. They fell like oversized cards; scattered, contents sliding out of a few. Her first writing attempts were songs that she played on her guitar. Her freshman attempts at both words and music were heartfull, emotional outpourings that lacked skill. The songs were not in this pile of files though, perhaps in a 3 ring binder in another drawer or on a shelf someplace.
After sliding the pages that escaped one file folder back into it, she reads the handwritten tab "The Red Tree of Hecklebury Forest", the start of a fantasy started long ago, abruptly ended with the spirit of a young girl still trapped in the rings of the tree's trunk and the former seaman setting sail once again to find an answer to the impossible bleeding bark. After all this time she just recently heard that there really exists such a tree. She wonders if the sailor will set her free.
In another box there are more files, but these files are different. Some of them contain accounts of historical events: 19th century Ireland and Nevada; early 20th century Pennsylvania and California. There's a brief factual account of someone, an amazing and intruguing woman of mystery, who unfortunately left too little testament behind for a biography. The lady's story must be told somehow, even if it ends up a mix of fact and fiction.This huge bundle of files and papers is grouped under the title "The Golden Gypsy". She sighs and decides it is just too ambitious a project for now.
The verb tenses seem to switch between past, present and even a few keystrokes into the future. It doesn't matter. As long as they help her sort out her papers, and, perhaps in the process, herself. She is certain of where her journals are. They aren't really diaries, but most entries are dated. They don't contain only original thoughts (which immediately brings up the notion of whether or not original thought even exists anymore). There are some famous quotes and poems scattered with sensible and non-sensical word strings of her own making. There are attempts to recount dreams. There is a progression through time, some she now scoffs at and says "I can barely believe I wrote that", embarrassed at herself. The diaries from her younger life have long since become worm-food, The more recent journals filled with empty pages. Perhaps she'll pull on one their threads.