Silence is past

Tristan stood still on the sidewalk, waiting for his turn to cross the street and reach his home. The day had been exhausting. It was already dark, and he had only a few hours to rest before taking the same road to his work. He watched the cars, their lights disappearing in an instant with the blink of his eyes. The past seemed to merge with the future, a gray zone where everything turned in circles. But his eyes grew heavy, and he felt despair. The wet sidewalk, the same path, the acceptance of the circle, of repetition, of this endless life, stuck in the same place, numbed his body. People looked at him strangely, disdainfully. He didn’t hesitate and didn’t care. He wanted to do something; he had reached that point where he had to make a decision.

The cars thinned, the traffic slowed, and the melodic song of the wind could be heard. The orchestral tone of the foliage gave an encouraging rhythm to the pentagram of his soul. He felt nothing; he had reached his organic state. His pupils dilated, the void he was in, hanging there, waiting for something, something that would change his life, ceased to exist. What a terrible feeling despair was, he thought. Suddenly, he found the movement and started crossing the street. The lights were deafening; he couldn’t see past the opposite sidewalk, his goal, yet he walked undeterred, without caring about what exactly was happening. A warmth inside him, against the cold and rain, urged him to change the situation.

He passed the park, the one with the few lights, terrifying at that hour but saving him a shortcut to his home. But he didn’t go there. He continued down another street, his hands in his black leather jacket and his bag on his shoulder, determined to break the cycle of the past. He reached the café, a warm place with people, perfect for a meeting. He knew he would find her there. He looked at the neon sign, reflected on the wet sidewalk. He pushed the door open and went inside. He went to the bar, where the bartender was. He had seen him before. He ordered a coffee, and it was served exactly the way he liked it. Without a word.

Looking at the cup, Tristan felt strange. The warmth inside him turned into fear. As he stirred the coffee, his vision blurred. He wanted to stop, to end the endless movement, but he didn’t have the strength. Every stir of the spoon was a movement towards nothing. How powerless he felt. He couldn’t avoid it. The circle was there, around him, inside him. And all he could do was stir. His thoughts kept reaching a dead end. "I’ve been to this café many times," he thought. He reminisced about the moments and how he made her laugh in this very café. She, in a white dress, angelically moving her hands in harmony with her dazzling smile. He believed inside him that he would experience it again, that she would be beside him, and they would talk about philosophy and concepts overflowing with meaning.

He wanted to see her again, for her to smile at him, for him to feel once again like the young man in love, who could be invincible, different. The images came alive before him. He couldn’t separate the now from the previous time they had been here together. He would do anything to be with her, but...? Sometimes, that’s not enough. He drank his coffee, murmuring, and discouraged, he waited for her to appear. Just like then, when she never showed up again, when he saw her for the last time. The door of the café opened, and he suddenly turned to look. He saw a brunette woman, about the same height as her. He couldn’t tell if it was her. His body reacted abruptly, he was shaken because he expected it to be her. Or was it? And yet. He was disappointed. Again. So this is the price then? This repetition leads to the same disappointment? He kept asking himself, without an answer. He lowered his head and took out his wallet to pay. The bartender looked at him disdainfully, just like everyone else. Giving the change, he said quietly but clearly: "Silent is past." He was taken aback and puzzled. What was that, and why?

He gathered his things and went back out into the rain. It had gotten heavier and denser, as if it wanted to draw attention away from Tristan. He continued his way home, walking with his hands in his pockets. A woman pushed him hurriedly, pulling him back into reality from the thoughts he had become absorbed in. He turned and looked at her. He realized that his memory was teasing him mockingly. There was absence where recognition of the figure should have been. Tristan was confused again. Who is this? Have I seen her before? Her form looked familiar. Wet and worn, she appeared in his path. But she looked like her, he thought! Yes, it’s her!

The past stood before him, with flesh and bones. Worn, wet, beautiful, and seductive, but at the same time difficult and rugged. He smiled when he thought of all he had gone through with her. She looked at him, surprised, as if she hadn’t expected to see him again. The scene had frozen. Would he break the cycle or accept it? Tristan remained silent. That was his choice. He turned his back and smiled. Now he felt that the circle had stopped, he had found the crack. But the disappointment remained, there, at the corner of the street, ready to attack. In essence, disappointment was the other side of love. No matter how much he tried to avoid it, to break it, it would always return. Perhaps, in the end, recognizing repetition means stopping it? He continued walking quickly, saying nothing. We are powerless before the decision, the choice. Whatever the choice, the result is the same, he wondered. In a different way. Just as the past appears before us, in different forms, it blends into the present. It’s not easily separated, but it looks at us, waiting for our decision to continue the cycle and already define our future. We feel strong against it. But. The clarity of the past was in her face. That’s when he remembered the bartender and his words.

Silence is past.