A Time

A door opened and shut – blown open by a gust and slammed to; a veil – before a face, before a window, before a hidden space – parted and closed. Endless avenues, tree-lined; long unlit corridors; and dark uninviting tunnels. A slight figure with a plain face, neither young or old, walking through, wandering along, looking down, still intimidated by life, and bewildered by the time that has passed.
Behind a door, in a room, in another world, files of memory are repeatedly visited and rifled through; old stories told – the same sentences used – and with half-attention, never whole, listened to, by the young, by the old, by those who were not there – in that time or place – and those who were – living, at least, or shared the experience; and faded snapshots looked at, some more bleached than others. A time, a time, a time...a time that comes back as if it were yesterday; a time that seems so far away its edges are a little blurred. There are no words...there is a dislocation between word and reality – the words drop, the thought – the memory – hangs unfinished...

Picture credit: Youth and Time, 1901, John William Godward (source: WikiArt).

Written April 2022