Nothing is ever lost. Stones do not forget. Places do not forget. Walls do not forget. There is no forgetfulness, only a conscious forgetting, by us. But those plants we saw, the paths we walked on, those coffee shops, eateries we visited, they.. Those walls.. Don’t forget us. We forget, or try to forget with whom we had coffee, because if we didn’t, we would forever be stuck in the past. Stuck in a moment long gone by.
December is a special month for me. It has marked the end and beginning of so many moments. Moments that are full of essences of people who make those memories. There is a certain flavour to the (finally) chilly December air. A flavour? A perfume? A scent?
Today, if I were to go to any of those places, I would look up with a certain watchful eagerness to see if you still frequent them. Does that kind of wary eagerness get seeped into the walls, so much so, that they cry out to you, that a person long forgotten still thinks of you in moments of vulnerability? This sort of timeless experiencing is what those “non-living things” do. It’s a gross miscalculation of human beings to think they are non-living.
They, of all, remember every word, scar, beauty, fear, love we seem to leave in our wake. We might forget those passionate (in anger or love) outbursts. But they remember. Not just mine, or yours. But of so many people. They are bursting (figuratively) at the very seams with the multitude and multiplicity of experiences.
Somebody asked me if I felt lonely. How can I feel lonely when I carry the spirit of those people who have touched me? How can I feel lonely when I know their essence has been imprinted in my mind, that now, am never alone. Those people are always with me. Not just people I have met in real life, but characters from books that I have grown up with. And yes, places. Pick n move, one of my gang’s favourite ice cream parlours has been closed. In its stead is the brand new Paradise. But everytime my memory conjures up our time there, the building is still there. It is still alive, for me, in me. Isn’t that most people wish for? To be remembered long after they are gone by? Isn’t it funny (or ironic, rather?) that buildings and our other favourite haunts seem to achieve that particular human dream easier than us?