if walls could speak

Stumbling across old things is always a delight, although often tinged with melancholy.

Old derelict houses are the things that always touch my soul. They're haunting,(but not in a 'ghostly' sort of way.) It was once someone's home. When they lived there, they probably never dreamed it would one day fall down and wither away, forgotten and left to the mercies of the forest. They loved it, cherished it, and raised their family there perhaps. Or maybe not; it could have been an unhappy home. 

But just think - one day it will happen to us too. Our houses will crumble, and people will forget us. Our family will one day be obliterated. Tiptoeing through ruins always fills me with a peculiar kind of sadness of things lost. 

Old books are another favourite thing of mine. A long time ago, they belonged to someone and were read, kept on a prominent shelf, or made trips round the world, passed on from owner to owner, bookshop to bookshop.
These objects are here in the present, and those that owned them are the people of the past, and somehow, that feeling of wonder and nostalgia gives me a fresh appreciation for the life that I have.
We don't really own anything, and if we do, it is only temporary. I have a violin which is a family heirloom, hailing from the depths of Scotland and made it's way to Ireland. Who knows where it was before that! It is well over a hundred years old, and yet though it is currently mine, I know I will not have it forever.

We're only put on this earth for a short time. It reminds me of the quote, "One life will soon be past - Only what's done for Christ shall last." 

I often wonder who lived in this particular house which, by the way, is in the middle of a forest and utterly desolated. 
So, where am I going with this rambling, incoherent post? Not sure..
The past always feels more alluring than the present. If walls could speak, what tales they would tell...