The Cobbled Streets of Yore

I live in a place called Wonderland. Of course, it is not so wonderful to all, and throws horrific memories to some, who were torn from this beloved city and feel totally rejected by her. We all look to blame something or some force when rejected, especially when cast into a land of horrors the human mind can scarcely conceive.

This place is magical, but as in other beautiful places, tragedy has been witnessed by some of the buildings here, by some of the streets, and if the walls could talk then too dark would their mutterings be for our softened ears (so protected from the past we seem at times, and so incredibly well guided have many of us been since). For we live in a prosperous age, at least it feels like there is freedom that our recent ancestors did not have the fortune to experience, and regardless of other riches this would seem to be the true key to understanding and enjoying our time on earth.

The cobbled streets of yore, have not only seen these things, they have held them in their hands. The same streets that had dead bodies just left to rot there, that had the sound of lonely feet, searching, looking for family, that had voices and torment and agony echo off them. For what the streets have seen they shall never forget.

Those who related their personal horrors from these times clearly lived with the ghost inside them, there was no acting here, the torture and sadness in their eyes was clear to see, but we could never truly fathom what they live with each day, what they genuinely had to experience.

I feel like it is the easiest thing in the world to need to acknowledge, and the hardest one to ever bring any justice to with my words. Perhaps it is simply about being aware and taking in some of these stories, these horrors and helping me to appreciate my existence, to treat others with care and love, and be happy that I have a peaceful soul, which unfortunately, still, is not the case the world over. Only through tragedy do we truly see the beauty, only can we find what is hidden if we open our eyes.

So, to tie it all back in, Wonderland is my home. I love this place dearly, but to see the harrowing events that this place and others have brought to people simply makes me think more deeply about my surroundings and everyone else and their pain. Wonderland is more a notion than an actual place, but even the greatest places have darkness, even the hardest hearts can be broken into tiny pieces and destroyed. The will of us, as a race, to keep fighting, to maintain hope and to never give up, as ever, astonishes me to my bones.

May the souls of all those taken so needlessly be forever filled with love, gratitude and warmth. Bless them all!