On Saturday, when I was in the city, I found a bookstore that sold used books and ended up buying ‘The Bridge at Andau’ by James Michener. It’s a book about the Hungarian revolt against Russian dominance in the 50’s, and it’s a really interesting read, but this has little or nothing to do with this post. I always find myself getting a little distracted when I read used books; I’ll find rips in the page, old scrawled handwriting(when I’m lucky), leaves or flowers, or in this particular case, just scuff marks. But I’ll occasionally lose my train of thought and think about the previous owner and how those marks got there, and it reminds me a lot of my feelings about archaeology. Ever since I was a child I’ve held some sort of passion towards historical objects, buildings, artifacts; not just because of the certain time period they existed though, or purpose they served, but because of their unique story. I’ve always wondered who it was that was reading this book, who it was that carved that stone, who held that glass, or any of the other minute details that make up someones daily life, and wondered about their own story. The things we do seem so much more significant and weighty, but at the same time they seem so futile and fragile. If I wasn’t at peace with the thought of borrowed time and that our lives are just one long adventure leading to a certain end I would probably be a little worried or even afraid of that thought, but where I am now It’s just an interesting avenue of thought to muse over. And I know this isn’t something you’d normally expect from me, seeing as it’s not a rage comic or meme(and for that I’m very sorry), but since I’ve started finding these marks in my book I’ve been wanting to get those thoughts out. I promise I’ll make it up to you by posting something completely devoid of any seriousness in a few minutes.