C’est La Vie.

i-suspect-that-they-put-Socrates-to-death-because-there-is-something-terribly

It had been a very cold winter that year, and the food was scarce and that was all he remembered as it was one of the few things he could still recall of, it had been 24 years since the year 1991, the food production was greatly hampered by the winter that followed a summer which had lasted longer than it should have had under the normal conditions. There was nothing that the peasants could do and neither could the government help

He remembered the day when he had but no option for to feed his family but to steal, he had broken into a bakery that day, it was not money that he had desired but some bread, a loaf of bread that would at least help his family from starving. He was not a thief!

24 years was a very long period of time,and there were none who would deny it, but he was free now. Free to begin a new life, but where would he have to start? His eyes were fixed on the pathway that lead out, the same aisle that he had dreamt of in the starting few years when he was brought in to the evil place, but he had soon accepted the way his life was now supposed to be, there was nothing that he could do. He could witness the walls being darker than ever and the clouds looking gloomy, standing guard representing his own agony.

He collected all what he still had left, and started to walk by, when the downpour started.

“Looks like the it does not wants you to leave; look it’s even crying,” remarked one of the guards.

Unwilling to even utter a word, he came back and sat on one of the benches in the reception,he was a free man now but he felt nothing less than a captive even when there was no reason for one to say that. He was not disturbed but his soul could not stop but scream.

The freedom that he had long desired was nothing but a mirage, for his very soul had been captivated, and there was nothing that anybody could do to release it.

He wondered what might have had happened with his family, and what many mysteries did the city held awaiting him, he wondered and wondered despite the fact that he completely knew the answers to the most of his questions, he thought of the men who once knew him, one part of the world which considered him long dead and of the other half which has never even heard of his existence.

He remembered the house, that he was very fond of. It was no mansion but it sure brought him comfort in times of distress.

While wandering off in his dreams he suddenly realized that the rain had stopped and hurried to leave, he waved a goodbye and breathed a sigh of relief. He was still with hope. Hope was all that constituted him.

The pathway had changed but he still remembered the way back home, there was no way that he couldn’t. There was once a small garden that his daughter loved to water, filled with flowers, flowers that were red, and pink and red, but that was just his memory. An business complex had acquired that place, as he walked by his very own home, all he could see was a sight of parked cars of men who worked up,up above.

The times had truly changed, he remembered a book that read,” If nothing ever changed, there’would be no butterflies.” He did not knew what would that mean today, when his own house had moved on.

After but a few minutes of strolling he turned back and started to walk to the prison, it was supposedly the only place that he now belonged to. He could clearly see everything.

He was now but an animal in captive who was allowed to move around but not far away, with a collar in his neck that forced him to stay put. He was in a very similar condition, or even worse!

“Thus ready for the way of life or death, I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus.”                                                                                                                                                                                      -William Shakespeare. 

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