This was an assignment in Geometry in which we were to write about Archimedes palimpsest. I either didn't finish it or just didn't save the final essay. I figure it's too strange and long to include it in Inklings.
Inquiring eyes examine every ounce of my body, intense light envelops my 1212 inch glass case, if only I wasn’t claustrophobic. Life with Blake was easier, no, life with Blake was boring. We had our adventures, I acknowledged his love for me by the touch of his fingers, the way he handled me, and how he only let me rest on the finest material. I was of importance to him, he worshiped me, rightly so. I laid by his bed, and awaited our morning routine. His alarm rang, as customary as this was, it still took me by surprise. He took hold of me, handled me delicately, and strived to learn my secrets. As time progressed, he grew tired of me. I was no longer worth what he paid for, so he made the rash decision to give me away. That’s the story of my life, or at least 5% of it. Now I’m stuck here in the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, Maryland.
I remember my younger years, what I wouldn’t give to experience those years of exploit. Everyday was an adventure; everyday I was filled with innovative ideas, explanations, and drawings. I grew fond of my owner, a brilliant man who was well-respected. I was grateful that he chose to share his thoughts with me. I would often feel the fresh ink gliding along my smooth surface, his hand augmenting in momentum as new ideas entered his head. I loved that man, and I held everything he inscribed in me with great importance, from his Method of Mechanical Theorems, to The Equilibrium of Planes. He was killed in 212 B.C. by a Roman soldier. It was a tragic time for me, but I knew I had served my purpose.
Life was tough, I was moved around from place to place and I finally ended up in the hands of a Christian monk. Religion had never been my cup of tea, and to be surrounded by religion, Christianity to be exact, was absurd! But there was nothing I could do about it. This monk wasn’t as holy as he posed to be. There came a day when he needed me, he needed my smooth surface, the numerous space I provided. I was covered with my dead owners text, his mathematics, his brilliant ideas, I was taken! Mr. Godworshiper couldn’t comprehend this, the concept was too difficult for him to grasp. Apparently ‘Christian monk‘ was an antonym for ‘oblivious idiot.’ He instead tore me in half! He scraped my beloved text away and used me to his advantage! I felt cheap, used, and worthless. My purpose in life was to keep my inscribed text and pass it on to future generations, but in 1200 this changed. Saddened and disillusioned I let Mr. Godworshiper turn me into a prayer book, I had no other choice.
Everyone used me! I was of importance to God-worshipers across the land. I was their means of religious study. I was forced to endure this for centuries and I was eventually stored within the Mar Sava monastery in Constantinople. There was no God; no higher entity could loathe me so much as to surround me with thousands and thousands of lunatic God-worshipers! It got worse, not only did I have to endure centuries of exploitation, but I had to survive the Fourth Crusade in 1204.
The Fourth Crusade…boy was that rough. I had made many friends within the Constantinople. Most where a bit narrow-minded with their religious scriptures and such, but they were my friends none-the-less. During the Fourth Crusade I witnessed most of my friends’ death. The burning, the yelling, the resonance of ash falling to the floor has been etched upon my memory forever. I survived, unsure if this was a juncture to rejoice.
In 1906 I finally came across a man of logic and sense; someone who was able to look beyond the fictional stories to the wonders of Archimedes. His name was Johan Ludvig Heiberg, a fine man he was. He understood my value, and he photographed every one of my pages; every detail of my body, every fragment of feasible surface. He analyzed me at great lengths and deciphered the secrets which I had hid for many years. My past owners thoughts were no longer secret, Johan publicized what he interpreted.
I couldn’t feel