Earlier today I remember reading the hardy boys mystery books. Funny how a simple little book could still be remembered with good clarity even after almost 8 years of reading it. A simple little mystery book to provoke thought. It seems throughout the years I have been sampling fewer and fewer of those books that provoke thought. A few gems exist in my memory and they shine brightly but there are a few dimmer ones that I remember nothing more than the title. Perhaps I could compare reading a book like a flame. The fire burning bright while I read it and shining my way towards higher thought or even better understanding of things around me through improving upon my intellect. Slowly as the years go by the flame dims due to either shortage of fuel or perhaps the ashes filling the air block it so it doesn’t seem as bright as before. Why are there not more bright books in my memory troubles me? Have I been avoiding these books? Has my selection of books turned more towards nothing about reality? Have I been seeking escape in a fantasy world where my brain goes on vacation? Or have I simply not looked hard enough. Many books I have read many times perhaps its that which is clouding my memory. Perhaps it’s even pointless to wonder. So many questions run through my mind as I hold an old hardy boy’s book feeling the warmth and fond memories of it come up from within the cover. Don’t even have to open the book to remember the mystery with the stuttering bird in it. Will I ever write such a book myself sharing with others my words and imagination or will my flame flicker and die out silently in a gentle breeze.