> The parade of thoughts in my mind kept spinning, like a clock, but time didn't seem to move. Everything that was worth taking with me was packed up in an old duffel bag and small leather shoulder bag, who knew life could contain so little. How is it possible that the ending always stays the same? The words that have been read will be read again, not even the characters really changed. Maybe they will wear different masks. One day this still will end, but that story is not mine to write, only live through. Is it really better for me to hate myself than try to love someone else? It didn't seem right. It felt strange to be so angry, that it was almost not fair, that my love would look so much like The Old Man's. There was a life out there that looked like Roberts, but mine would never look like that.
> The bus would leave the following morning; and with it all of my life. This should be my last day in this god forbidden city. It would be easy enough to lay in bed, using the silence like a blanket to hide my fear. It would be easier to leave her before she could leave me; at least it would be easier for me. The only two things traveling with me were my journal and a random comic I had found the other day, at "SODA-SHOP NAME". The bags wouldn't come with me on this trip, but it was almost relieving knowing that they were ready. It wasn't time to meet her yet, she wanted to meet later in the day, when it was a bit warmer, and maybe my mind had been changed. As strange as it sounded, there seemed to be only one thing worth doing the next few hours, and that was fishing.
> There of course was a chore list left for me, but those chores would never be done again; at least not by me. It must be fate as "OLD Blue" didn't go with The Old Man this morning but stayed behind. It was nice to have her by my side, she sure spent a lot of time with him; since he started pretending to be someone else. There was a pole and a bucket as my feet skipped along the path. Although, my thoughts refused to be left behind. There was nothing more that could be said, but still my heart kept trying to say more. How foolish it felt to walk away from her love. The best place to fish was always the deep hole about 2 miles from the bridge. It wasn't easy getting there, but most places worth going weren't easy to get to. The comic was in the bag, who knew if the fish would be biting.
> The tree's were thick, but without their leaves they looked quite naked. The water was getting deeper, even almost a little faster. There were a few spots that you had to jump to the other side, barely more than four or five feet across. There was a little valley that held the trophy catfish, they were as big as your leg. The best place to fish for them required you to jump to the other side, but it also required you to get a little wet and it was too cold for that. Thankfully the bend in the river was coming up and that was a good place to sit for a few hours. There were enough worms to fish for a day, the lucky ones would be eaten and the rest would escape. The line was in the water, and it felt nice to focus on the end of the pole, and nothing else. It didn't move, but then again it didn't have too.
> It was Robert who taught me how to fish, he even gave me this fishing pole. There wasn't much to look back on, but Robert made growing up a little easier for me. It seemed that the day had finally come, where he couldn't help me to cross the street. Maybe, it was because he could never understand how to get to the other side. He had never had a girlfriend, and didn't seem to be too interested in mine. The pole dips down a few times reminding me to pay attention. It is hard not to think in moments like this, and sometimes it's harder to think. There are so many moments where Robert was able to bring life into what many called boredom. We had met in the fifth grade and before we entered the sixth grade we were best friends; he was my only friend.
> Time is such a mystery. We didn't even realize that our childhood was ending, only that it was gone. There is no doubt that if it weren't for Mr. Davis we would not be friends. It was his first day of class, and the seat next to me was open. It was always open, no one would sit next to me on purpose, not even Robert. He talked to me as if we were friends, but didn't even know my name. Mr. Davis, didn't teach like any other teacher, rather than teach from the blackboard he asked questions. He never answered a single question he asked. All my other teachers always had their answers before they asked a question. It was the only year my math grade was a b, this last year my grade had been that as well. He became both of our favorite teacher, and we talked about him often.
YOU ARE READING
Ghosts' of November
Historyczne"Ghost's of November" is a haunting exploration of love, loss, and the relentless pursuit of redemption. The story delves into the life of a protagonist who is trapped by memories of a troubled past, seeking peace in a world that offers little solac...
