This place is full of people like me—people who are, in a way, a burden to the earth. We pass unnoticed, ignored, even loathed by the world around us. Our stories are all the same, woven from the same fabric of hardship, loss, and yearning. We are the forgotten, the invisible ones.
We are old and weak now, bearing the weight of punishment for deeds done long ago, in a time when the good old days seemed so close, so tangible. Now, we gaze back at those days with longing, asking for charity in these last years of our lives.
We all carry the same memories, the same regrets, dejected by our own insanity. Time slips through our fingers as we reign over a domain of poverty, a world replete with distant relations but no true connection. Ours is a kingdom of grief, where each of us holds a subtle imagination of what could have been, yet we are all bound by the same feelings, the same gravity of life’s crushing weight.
We are strangers to one another, yet so familiar—our backgrounds the same, our aims lofty once, now forgotten. We miss the warmth of the fireplaces, the comfort of times gone by. And yet, memories are cruel, casting their images before our eyes, reminders of what we have lost.
Our eyes are dewy, still waiting for something, for anything, in this moment of silence and solace. Hands shake, the evening sinks deeper into loneliness, into places unknown. Our veins are fragile, our hair grey and silvery, and in this twilight, we paint strange imagery on the canvas of our lives.
Hope sinks in the dark estuary of despair. The “old home” we speak of may just be a forgotten cemetery, a place where the living and the dead meet, indistinguishable in their sorrow and silence.