Not so long ago I visited my parents in the old family house for the first time in years. After the usual hugging around, having a little talk with every one and tucking down the 4-course dinner my mum cooked for me, I retired to my old room.
Everything was pretty much the same as when I moved out. The bed that suddenly seemed way too small; the desk full of colourful stains and doodles, with comic books and scrap papers hanging out of its drawers; the ever so comfortable armchair that I fell asleep in many times while reading a good book overnight; the baggy clothes that make me smile everytime I open the wardrobe; and the bookshelves filled with everything that didn't fit in the rest of the room. All the things just as I left them, if not a little cleaner and less messy, thanks to the caring hands of my mother.
Exept the one bookshelf in the corner of the room.
The one bookshelf not even my mother touched however dusty it became over time.
A bookshelf filled with tiny statues, houses and trees and mountains Heroes fighting monsters in dungeons, armies battleing through forests, fields and villages, and warriors, thieves and wizards sharing their adventures in taverns. All like dozens of tales frozen in time, sealed by a misty layer of dust.
A bookshelf filled with tiny statues, houses and trees and mountains Heroes fighting monsters in dungeons, armies battleing through forests, fields and villages, and warriors, thieves and wizards sharing their adventures in taverns. All like dozens of tales frozen in time, sealed by a misty layer of dust.
Memories of a long gone hobby, of endless nights of modelling and painting, of days spent with friends in game clubs rolling - and, on occasion, cursing - the dice, fighting battles on the tabletop. Memories I would like to live again.
Therefore I blew the dust off that shelf, deciding to start again.
I would like to dedicate this journal to my new-old hobby, miniature painting and wargaming.
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