memory strikes me as weak and imperfect. Just remember not to adorn some details banalities or fantasy that we have forgotten. Sometimes we put in our memory without virtues of our memories and with them we unreality that are closer to a dream of what we would have been the experience. The lack of a memory leads us to imagine, with the sweetness of compassion for ourselves, forget it existed but in an idealized manner.
For nearly seven years had not returned to what was my place of work for a decade. For me it was usual to get there from nine o'clock in the morning and stay until late afternoon on the campus of Central Park. Had a wide officiate in the building Moher overlooking the inner courtyard that separates part of the huge towers and everything you could need was at my fingertips. For that time had its headquarters there about 10 banks, post office, plenty of restaurants to enjoy a gastronomic offer and envy any boulevard or mall. Pharmacy services, shops, hairdressers, bakeries, markets, carpet cleaning, printing presses, theaters, bookstores, art stores and the wonderful Museum of Contemporary Art Sofia Imber. I felt that everything was close, without the fear of rain or need to take some means of transportation for finding it.
The impact I suffered on this ride forced to walk the corridors could not be betraying my memory. From all that I remembered a sweet, there was only the awareness that no product could be wishful thinking or an oversight. It was a somber reunion gave me nausea. Laziness hit me with a sound whipping, as you would a rider in a final race.
I looked to do a test on my memories, I dressed in the costume of disbelief to find at some crack something that resembled what for me still had the aura of a pleasant place, where I worked, enjoyed, made friends and even found love. Where was all that gave me encouragement for daily work? What did the usual characters that gave color and warmth to the corridors? The ice cream vendor always smiling, the lottery was making sure that luck for whom the look. Now all absent.
An empty stage after a show does not compare to the impression that I got the closed premises, lack of life seen in these areas, before plethoric people, business, prosperity. The architectural monster so its huge towers, the population still lives there, she works in the forgotten public offices without air conditioning, living with the remains of a tower that remains upright but broken in her womb, is mortally wounded. The colossus that was from every pore, now lives in a perpetual vigil. Not my memory, but every day is bent like a reed, which has a site and now idealized and unfold again to find that the fabric is corroded. How do we face
back to what once was the customarily pleasant?
How to avoid the pain that seems hopelessly lost?
Many things return to our lives, experiences, emotions, experiences. We may never know exactly how to return it. The certainty of such ignorance, but leaves no room for melancholy. My memories everyday
Central Park no longer belong to me, crossed the realm of the improbable and now form part of a past that seems foreign. Now there is instead an empty interior coated horror. A trip to the dismay of a train with no stops, where he was immediately run away and move on.
Reason dictates to me that what was once for me than usual was condemned and silenced forever.
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