Why does a building in ruin speak so directly to me? What allure does a dank, musty corridor hold that a newer structure lacks? Beyond being one who embraces her wanderlust, I’m also drawn to the decay and sense of abandonment such places effuse. What stories have they to tell, what past once thrived within the now crumbling walls? What of the soul that may still canvas the lonely walkways? How do I turn my back on the call, look away when something begs to be seen? How am I to fight the desire to lay my eyes on what has long since gone unnoticed, unwanted, unwelcome? Perhaps I’m not meant to turn and walk away. Perhaps I’m one of the few who must see, must feel, must know what such a place wishes to whisper. Am I to consider myself a chronicler of all things forgotten, one who sits in judgment of those who haven’t a care? Or am I to realize that what has been abandoned, pushed to the side, lost and discarded recognizes me as a similar breed and is reaching out so that somewhere, somehow, something will retain a memory of me?

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