Museums Poem by Lance Abellon

When I was little, I like to go to museums.
I stare at each work of art that surrounds me.
One by one, I learn about the history of each work of art and how it was crafted.

I tend to know its stories.
Of how the creators had the guts to create them. During that moment, I am so amazed at them. I am amazed on each detail of its creation.

And then, it came to my mind:
That everything has its history.
That everything came from something.
That every work of art leaves a mark on our existence.

I knew that life is full of colors.
A lot of mysteries that hide upon each gloominess and lighteness of each chapter.
That no memory is never meant to be forgotten by someone.

From then on, I try to treasure each moment that I have gone through.
I made my heart as a museum of histories with thousands of beautiful moments.
Everywhere that I go, every idea that I get through talking to people.

I use to think that every chapter that I go through teaches lessons at me.
That no memory is meant to be forgotten to those who treasure them the most.

Good or bad memories must not be forgotten by anyone. For they are the signs of us being alive.
They will be lessons that we must bring with wherever we go.

Let us go back at them not be hurt. But instead to remember that they are made to make our life meaningful.

We are histories always meant to be remembered.