Archaeology, Archaeologist.
The very sound of these words conjures up images of
The Past, Adventure, Excitement,
Things out of the ordinary.
The taste of exotic places, travel,
Things that are thought old
Are new again in the light of another day.
But why?
Archaeology is just the study of our ancestor's
Material remains that they left behind.
Isn't it?
A way to study history
Before and after the written word.
Isn't it?
What compels us?
What is the driving force
Behind the yearning for our beginnings,
Our roots, ourselves?
Buried deep within our collective souls,
Hidden in the most primitive parts of our tortured brains
Lies a want, a need, a desire,
Nay, a thirst,
To know who we are, what we are.
A thirst so overpowering,
So overwhelming
That it cannot be quenched by ordinary means,
By ordinary people.
Only those who are driven by this thirst
Can dig, excavate, and analyze,
These chosen few
Are the ones to slake the thirst for knowledge.
It is we, the chosen,
Whose angst-ridden souls
Will never rest until we have our answers.
We do not seek, nor crave, adventure or excitement,
To travel to distant lands in search of the exotic,
However, we welcome it with open arms if by chance
These things come our way.
We embrace the old like long-lost friends,
Eagerly awaiting the tales they have to tell
Of their adventures, their travels, their exciting lives.
Sometimes we must pry to extract the stories of long ago
Nevertheless, it is through this ferreting
That the truths are told,
The dreams of the past exposed
To be shared with the world.
Through Archaeology,
By Archaeologists,
Are these mysteries revealed, discovered
And shared.

The Thieves of Time

The dirt, the grime,
The gritty feel of it in the teeth, the hair, on the hands.
With the delicacy of the experienced hand,
It brushes away.

Clean, damp, reeking of the mold and mildew of the ages,
As one trowels away the years, the eras, the millenniums
Exposing a long forgotten past no one remembers.

History surfaces from the depths of time,
Raising its withered magnificent ghost gray head for all to see;
To be deciphered only by those who understand.

Passing it along to the next generation;
Always to be remembered,
Never to be repeated.

They who kill, murder, and dissect their subjects
Till all that is left are the remains;
The artifacts, the sherds and points of the past.

Gathering dust in musty old museums;
Buried again forever this time in glass fronted cases
Forgotten until someone else comes along

But safe from the Thieves of Time.