We find that time
is a fickle thing.
We are actually
Quite, quite wrong.
What we don’t realize
is that we are
the fickle things.
We fear change
Yet we are
Constantly changing.
Growing, learning.
We support things,
Yet when the time comes,
We cut the chord,
Close the shop,
Hoping to never be seen again.

Time remains constant,
Always forward, never backward.
Always and forever there.
Time haunts us,
tempts us,
provokes us to return
to that place we once knew.
That place we now yearn.
Ironic, n’est-ce pas?

That place.
The sights of Jiffy 620s on display,
Of curiosities on shelves,
Of groovy artwork on faded walls.
The smells of cigars,
Of high quality coffee at low prices,
of home.
The sounds of laughter,
of love in bloom,
of philosophical talks and debates.
Now replaced by
the flashing of phone cameras,
modern and sleek boutiques,
the crowds of foreign folks.
Not a single familiar face in sight.

We find that time
is a fickle thing.
We are indeed
quite quite wrong.
The person you were then,
the person you yearn to be again,
the person you are now,
Are as strange as the places
Not a single familiar face in sight.


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