A cold November night. Steps echoing down the almost deserted streets as light droplets of rain fall upon us. Unreadable expressions lit by the dim city lights as pairs of distant eyes roam. Nostalgia and solitude are two comforting companions, who walk by our side as invisible traces of familiarity linger in the air. Ghosts of what we used to be keep dancing together as the sad symphony of silence keeps playing repeatedly, broken from time to time by the noises of the passing cars, just to be replayed again.
The trees are left naked, undressed from their torn orange gowns, which lay messily on the edge of the ugly sidewalks. The buildings and the statues seem gloomier than ever, as if they are able to predict what awaits this city of ours within a month. The starless sky starts to mourn as its unshed tears soak us. Goodbyes are not whispered, but understood, for everything is being stripped off life, including you and me.
Stripped from our dreams and hopes, slowly, but determined, we lie to ourselves once more. We are alive, even though we have never felt so dead before. We try to ignore the almost extinguished fire that used to burn within our souls, for we can’t fight the fierce winds. As the days pass by and get colder, so do we, losing heat from our bodies and hearts, but that’s okay, for that doesn’t bother us. Nothing has ever bothered us, right?
The emotions we are robbed from every autumn and the numbness we receive as a gift every winter, they never really mattered to us. All that matters is the comfort of the numbness, which resembles a fog, slowly conquering our whole heart till it has spread all over our body, consuming us whole.
It’s okay that we are left with nothing more than a pair of hollow eyes, matched with blank expressions and the shell of what we used to be. Our expressions match those of the statues and our beings resemble the trees, but they at least revive in spring, unlike you and me.
It’s kind of okay that we have forgotten how it really feels to feel, isn’t it?
Maybe, if we lie to ourselves once again, it will be okay for real.
It’s okay for we are alive, even though we never felt this dead. Even though the sky seems more alive than you and me, for at least it cries. We are alive, even though our bodies feel heavy and all we want to do is lay our head, close our eyes and get a taste of the eternal sleep. We are alive, even though we own nothing more than those shells we call bodies. We are alive even though we never felt so dead, but at least, if we had died for real we couldn’t die a second time.