Years had passed
The man had not realized that years had passed. Too many of them to count.
But counting he did. Not the years, gone. But scenes hidden from his memory, episodes frozen, people frozen, thirty or forty years ago.
For him, they will, always, be like they were then.
He does acknowledge the passing time, but he also acknowledge that time has frozen, a construct having been made.
Perhaps he is afraid of meeting his own past, the actions he did, or not.
A life is behind him.
A life is, also, open.
Will he judged for what is supposed to have achieved?
Or for what he aspire to achieve?
Cats dozing in the heat of a summer afternoon, unaware of the turmoil of his mind.
She was walking by the long distance coach, not noticing the intense eyes of the man through the window glass.
Very early in the morning.
She was wearing the blue uniform of her school.
He never saw her again.
Although, sometimes, she appears in his mind when getting asleep, half awake, half dreaming.
Sleep does not come after that.
The man sat in silence, one summer afternoon.
Chapter after chapter, his journey appeared in front of him, becoming an spectator of his past.
The past cannot be lived again. Closed. For ever.
But it can be played again, as a game, options open. The ones that he did not followed. The ones that he followed.
But the past is never just history. It cannot be.