Arcadia

13

The long line of tombstones call out to me, but there is something that holds me back: the reality, the mundane, my brain repeating what it has been taught to believe. And yet, there is something in me that wants to feel, that wants to be scared. But when you are with the right people, even the most mundane things seem magic. You can believe, that the cracks in the tombs are souls trying to escape, that the woman you saw wasn't a being of this world. You freak out, you cling to her, even when you're wondering at the back of your mind whether she is possessed.
Do paper birds really appease dead souls? And after you read beyond their names and the inscriptions on the tombstones, and you realise they are people just like you. Just like you, they have their stories to tell. And suddenly the fear goes away, only to be replaced by a vague longing. The line between the real and the unreal seems to disappear, and they call out to you. The filtered ray of late sunlight in the clearing, the leaves falling on your head, all of it seems so synchronised, almost like music. And you want to go. You want to go beyond, to listen to their stories, to sing their songs.

I could make myself believe that they were unquiet spirits, that things are not what they seem to be. But once outside, the hustle of the city brings you down, and you know it was all in your head. You know it was just cement and stones, and a few broken bones underneath. Nothing more, nothing less. But you want the magic to stay. Because some moments hit you like winds from distant deserts, and you don't need it to make sense.