There is a certain glow to unknown things that blinds the eyes and increases distance. The darkest unexplored corridors may seem almost insubstantial in their brightness before we touch their farthest recesses. Then the mirage dies and they bare their dusty corners for all to see. Yes, we see—and yet do not quite understand—the smoke stain silhouettes made by those who used to walk these halls, used to love their rough-hewn stone walls, as we yearn to love them now despite the mess that has collected there: the sawdust specks and fallen planks strewn across the walkway from past attempts to mend caving floors and fallen arches. And it is here that we also find we have tracked in more filth in the form of muddy sneakers too heavily treading and grimy hands carelessly grasping. We dreamed of, half-expected, gleaming palaces in far-off lands, but it’s all too real, too real, too real, we cry out, and also I wish I could make it all better, and sometimes even the old lie I understand. They become chants we repeat, mantras we use for want of other words to fill the spaces over spilled glasses of water that remind us of the dishes still to be done back home. We want to clean, to scrub, to repair, to make new. And at the same time we know we cannot

And yet, somewhere along the way we come to love the smoke stains and the dirt and the grime and even the wood-scraps blocking the path. They have become parts of the structure, stories found in the tiniest pores of stone, evidence of use and wear and tear and most of all love. What castle is spotless save that which has not been used, been lived in, been loved? Better to crumble from years of wear than from utter lack of it. Better to let water spill and flow lightly, freely than be worked and beaten into the dust and stone until our elbows are sore.