When We Became the Past

No matter how far we may find ourselves, we return home sooner or later. To our city. To a world where time seems to stand still. And we feel superior, because no one here even dared to come close to what we have achieved. The streets of the small community are still the same ones we raced down as kids. We know them inside and out. We still dream of the time when these alleys were the veins of our childish existence. As I walk down the main street, my thoughts drift. They rise above the city, and memories surface everywhere. When I come to my senses again, I stand on a small bridge just outside the city.

We ruled this place. We shook it to its core, making it tremble. We passed through its gates at night; we kissed, ate, fought, cried, came, shouted, laughed, and drank. Loudly. Energetically. Fearlessly. So that we might leave our mark. But our graffiti has faded. Our legends have been silenced. Our markings erased. Time has made us victims. The generation that now wreaks havoc in these streets has no idea of what once took place here. They don’t know what we risked, who we touched, how many enemies we made, or how many friends stood by us. None of it matters to them. They don’t care about our names, our places, our sorrows, or our songs.

And then we realize we have no reason to feel superior. We accomplished nothing. Our memories linger as vague shadows, without effect, without desire. They are proof only that we’ve been replaced - by people who find us irrelevant and now write their own legends in the places where our stories once unfolded. But this generation will also return to this place. And they will realize that none of their actions, no matter how wild, passionate, or dramatic, will achieve eternity. That their life, too, is just a copy of a copy. And that everything falls apart the moment they turn around. All that remains is the dream of doing something no one before us has ever done.