Whimper

What we got here is… failure to communicate.

Out by the spindling soulless grey of the gum trees where those old friends who we called auntie used to live, there was a brook. If you were lucky and everyone was healthy summer meant at least a few days at the Junction, where us three would be picked up from the train station out south of nowhere and be taken to. And in the dark we fell down stairs, we slipped on stones, we cursed the empty goddamn country until it was fucking obvious where the bloody hell we were. And the hot sun didn’t burn in memories quite like the cool brook, nor the stink of the animals quite like the fact that they roamed the granite hand-set floors.
And so now it’s 2006 and we’re all grown up, well at least I feel like I’m ready to pretend I am until old age crumbles the façade, and I want to try and tell you that I love you like I loved those days because I didn’t realize I had those days and now they are well gone and sold into the past of other people much more connected to that version of history than I. And in the rare moments when I think of this thing that has grown around us and I see it from outside, in those moments I know that it would all be different if I had grown up inside the bubble. That trying to be the one who shared the long forgotten ashen trees with you, or whatever those trees were for you, is as useless as trying to go back there now.
A great writer said words to the effect that nothing is a greater tragedy than a man forced to see again a place etched golden by nostalgia.
Though he said it in a much better way. We cannot go back to our holy lands, because they will be sacked and heathen when we arrive. Perhaps though, a hypothesis, maybe it is a greater tragedy that our nostalgia is set, that we cannot insert others who should have been there into the forever memory of the past. Or that we cannot feel that perfect longing for the future the way we do for bygones. It our base and wholly human perception of time, one dimensional and set.
What thoughts.