by Jolanda Otto
Human beings happen to spend their lifetimes in so many different ways.
Some make their lifetimes be great buildings. Buildings that stand tall against the changes of time, meant to endure faith and failure. But sometimes, they only remain an ancient memory from long forgotten times for everyone to remember.
Some make their lifetimes be stories. Stories that will be told through all times, stories that might only be heard by one’s beloved. Stories that are losing words, meant to be forgotten.
Some human beings make their lifetimes a search. Some find what they search for, some keep on sailing against the current of times that have already passed. They find themselves wishing to be back in the good old days.
In these modern times I still use pencil and paper, writing my stories in a tiny red book. I love to sit in the small cafe. The fading light of day guides all kinds of stories in the cafe. I consider myself a collector. A collector of lifetimes. I feel the stirring touch of enticingly whispering excitement as I continue collecting the story of the triple identity.
The old man’s face expressed nothing but regret. He an architect of buildings that reached the sky. An architect of the building of his life. His building of life seemed colourful to me, a mosaic of tiny fragments that resulted in an enduring picture, shining with the sun. As he continued talking, his building of a lifetime crumbled before our eyes. Too late, he saw the holes in the well-defined stones. Too late, he found himself longing for another story.
A story he created secretly in some other place. He found himself a wife and children. He found himself not being the narrator of his story. He found himself being only a visitor. Someone who was just passing by for the good old days which can never be renewed. He found himself being a stranger. A stranger who has forgotten to tell the story of the ancient building. His pathway of destiny had winded and bended far too often, for he had long lost track of his never-ending search for shelter and a home. He still believed that happiness was only an inch away. Maybe in the next place that his journey may bring him to.
His lifetime was a building, a story and a search. But as I looked closer, it was none of these. It was a building that faded from the sights of time and it was a story that has never been told. A story of a visitor, a searcher. A searcher for time that only ever existed in his memory, not meant to be found. A searcher for a time that has never been created to be lived in.
I took my hat and left the cafe. Still, the snowflakes were dancing and little snow stars landed on my shoulder. For a blink of an eye, they were there, while in the next second they were gone forever. Just like any moment that made time turn into a memory. I recalled the regret in the man’s face. I didn’t feel like a lost soul anymore, for I carried on with my lifetime, making it neither a building, nor a story, nor a search. Time carried on turning my lifetime into a memory. I made sure that it was a good one.
© Jolanda Otto 2022-11-28