40 Days

Flowers wither. Waters subside. Time passes as everything changes. Memories stack up, dumping old memoirs of the past behind the corner-most part of one’s memory. The intensity of the effect of a memory, no matter how life-changing it had been, would slowly fade until it would only become a silent film in one’s imagination. A dead reminiscence. An old photo. A petty image of diminishing glorification of yesterday.

Here I was, carefully crafting the words – no, let me rephrase it: here I was, as these memories craft the words that I print intended to faithfully describe all that happened within that forty days of my stay in that city.

This was an ordinary story of an ordinary man in a city that yearned to be extraordinary.