Woeful Tale Of The Many

I walk along the roads of Rome, the walls of every building drenched in history. The colors are far too dull for my liking but the town is bustling, cheerful voices making up for all the lost color. As I walk further on I see an old building the red fading into orange, I touch the dry walls, the walls that were supposed to hold our memories, you promised.

My brain holds many tiny insignificant memories that are triggered at the sight of familiarity. If I allow one memory to leak out the rest burst in through the doors. Time moves on, but the places where memories are forged remain the same. How far can we move away from them?

Cars honked as people impatiently quivered in their seats. No smiles were exchanged, no eyes were met, people stared blankly forward, their minds submerged in the papers piling up in their cubicles they had yet to reach. But his face could not be missed  in that crowd after all  it was frozen in her memory. She wanted to look away, but her eyes refused, her legs moved forward despite her every attempt to stop. His hands, his strong hands were wrapped around another's and her heart pulled the brakes on every sense that had awoken.

Sometimes I just feel like dropping all my belongings on the ground, leaving my mess of a life behind and moving. Moving somewhere, anywhere. This is why I love video games and reading. I feel like I've transported into some parallel universe, witnessing someone else's life, their happiness and tragedies, the people they cared for and the betrayal they received in return.

She stared blankly at the person in the mirror, every inch of her face coated with make-up. Someone held her hand and walked alongside her. She was going to be married, all of her, all the unfulfilled dreams, the unfinished business her. 

Sometimes when all my friends have classes to attend I just go to the student lounge, take a chair and look around. Notice friends laughing with each other and sometimes at each other. I see girls dressed at their best, gossiping with their friends with a coffee in one hand and a laptop in another. I see boys and girls sitting quietly in corners studying for a test, an exam or just for the sake of it. I must seem like a weirdo, like a stalker. Stalking the youth and how they deal with being at the crossfire of two generations, one that refuses to let go of customs and traditions and the other that is rewriting them.

Slick black hair tied back neatly she wore a crisp blazer and a confident attitude as she scrammed out the door for an urgent meeting. She was parched but didn't have time to stop for coffee, the bottle in her bag was empty. At the end of the day she was tired out of her brains, she slumped into her bed making plans for the  next day. There was no place for empty moments in her life, she wouldn't let them in. Silence scared her, it screamed of loneliness so she switched on the television and fell asleep.

I was reading a blog post where the blogger was talking about her female role models and I realized I don't have any. There was no woman in this world I could connect with, with the same background, the same battles, the same disappointments. 

The shackles of traditions and the pain of disappointing people you care about, of broken hearts and second chances, of blame and redemption, of holding on and letting go, each one's personal ballad.