Non classé, prose, writing

Ghosts

Five years ago, everything seemed to be on the right path. There were construction sites on every corner, people were riding bikes to work, sincere smiles on their faces, and even far away you could hear kids laughing. It felt different now. Five years are more than enough to change people, and they certainly do the same to places. The man knew that. He turned left on the boulevard, and walked on. Like many others, he used to live on that street back when he was a student. The building was still there, but was now looking ominous – on the verge of falling or so it seemed. There was something scary about time, about how it devours everything and eventually leaves you with nothing. The man remained there, staring at the building wordlessly. The street was quiet and no one seemed to be around. There wasn’t any noise, any wind, any insect. Nothing. Nothing but a whole, plain, heavy and deep silence. On one side of the building though, a plant of some sort had started to grow and now covered a good chunk of it. The man thought that perhaps, everything had not totally disappeared. He remembered what Black had said, about how sometimes things need to die so that other can be born. It sounded scary, downright scary, but perhaps there was a ring of truth to it. There had been many things, many appearances, that had led the man to reconsider his positions about a great many things. Maybe he could do the same for that. There was no need to be so manichean about everything, he thought. Who knows what optimism tastes like anyway? It was only when he turned around to go on that it struck him. A sudden flash of memory came to his eyes. He was there, standing at the exact same spot, grinning like an idiot. She was making her way towards him, now running, spreading her arms, white teeth gleaming in the sun. There was a smell of roses and a softness of the air. Everything was young, and fresh, and warm, and tender.
Someone somewhere honked their horns. The man drew his wallet out of his pocket and opened it. The picture was still inside. It dated from that very same day, from another time, but it was still there. Pictures last longer than memories, but the man was not sure it was a good thing.
I shouldn’t have come back, he thought.

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