When I go inside,
I tread it like a like a tourist –
measuring every single step.
walking as if this was an episode in some
ghost hunting television show.
Maybe it is ghost hunting.
As I touch the televisions and cameras
the carpets and mannequins
“Hear me out, for I have flown during the war”
or “I was this newscaster’s first camera”.
There is something about the past,
where I find home, where I think I invented a time machine
and accidentally pushed myself to the present day.
Remember H.G. Wells?
Sort of like that.
Except that my machine has no hope of repair
So I try.
I brush through the license plates of 1950
the bomber jackets of the war
or the record that made my grandparents fall in love.
Hoping that in touching them,
I stumble into a portal
back to where I belong.
I miss home, I miss the old country. I miss the old abandoned places, the antique stores, I miss hunting for portals. This is what happens when you put someone in the middle of modernity – or a modern city for that matter. When I get back to the old country, I’ll go around again. To hell with those telling me that it is “dangerous” in our wild west-esque country. It’s where I belong – a city suspended in the past. Please let me go home.
10th of the 7th, 2014. 2:12pm (DXB)
Frame of Mind