This time it is not a travelogue, exactly.
The past, man-made is not dry. It is vivid and longs to tell you its tale if you wish to pause and hear.
It is scattered all around you. Like in this switchboard that makes you wonder why the king never touched some switches. It propels you into his world of light, liking, and command. The reality of its despair is the fact on the rocks of which one small peg of your imagination clinks in the glass of a moment.
These are the moments that introduce me to the past that is still present. Sometimes tarnished,
In great despair and need for repair,
Imprisoning its visitors: antagonists and sympathizers alike, showing its cracks to some and colors to some,
Gripping everyone firmly alike,
Showing window to the window to the door,
Always sprouting from the dry, tough places,
Coloring everyone, yet remaining free of even a dot of color itself,
… just like a room filled with memories of someone who is no longer there.
…making do with whatever is handy and drawing comfort
The truth is, it is past. The hope is, it is not completely gone. Yet. The wish is, to put it either this way or the other. The pain is, it will never happen that way.
Until then, each encounter fills a bit of one’s heart with longing. Longing to extend my hand and enter it, touch it, fill it, live it.
It touches me so, because perhaps I am also a past that is still present.
How do you see it?