31 days and counting…
Last night I watched my first
ever falling star. It was beautiful yet
transient, a fleeting orange flare
that burned its way across the night sky, tearing through the darkness before
disappearing over the horizon. I can’t
help wondering what it was, maybe a meteor or perhaps the death throes of an
ancient satellite burning up in the violence of re-entry as it lost its long
and futile struggle to resist the implacable pull of gravity. I don’t know why but the thought saddened me,
perhaps the romantic would-be archaeologist in me mourned the loss of one more
relic of the pre-war world, of one more piece of proof that mankind could have
been so much more if only we could control our urge to destroy each other. I’m starting to realise how much we’ve lost as
a people, not only in terms of the society we had before but in terms of what
we are. Life in the city is ordered,
managed and controlled and the drive to innovate or explore has died. We don’t question or push we just accept. My little brother used to love watching
Science fiction movies, starships and battles in distant galaxies, cars racing
on neon circuits, humanoid robots living and working alongside people. I used to watch him play, pretending to be a
pilot, a driver, an inventor and the
innocence of it made me smile. He used
to keep me awake at night in our shared bedroom telling me how he would follow
in the footsteps of the heroes of the past and travel to the moon, build a car
and race it down the narrow streets of the city and I would nod and tell him
I’d help him. I knew of course that as
he grew up his dreams would change, that the pressure of life in our
underground home would mould his mind and personality in to one that suited the
wishes of our rulers.
Although it looked to me like a shooting star, the cynic in me couldn’t help but wonder if it was actually a piece of long dead satellite burning up. I’m always saddened when I think about parts of the old world being destroyed or lost, I’m not sure why since all I’ve ever known my whole life is the old world in tatters, but I still find it sad when another piece of history is gone forever. I guess it’s nostalgia I mean I know that before things weren’t perfect, they can’t have been for the war to happen in the first place but I believe that life was better for most people. There were towns and cities, neighbourhoods instead of corridors, schools instead of repurposed storage space and places for children to play in the open instead of a ventilated hall with a metal ceiling. Sure the playground in the city was nice, the ceiling was painted blue with clouds and everything and even the lights were hidden so it seemed like daylight but we all knew it wasn’t and we all, that’s the kids, wanted to know what playing outside would really feel like; how wind would feel on our face and how grass would feel on the soles of our bare feet. I’ve seen movies where the children had to wear coats and scarves to play on the swings and slides but as a child all I needed was shorts and a blouse, it was never too hot or cold underground and we never had to worry about dirt or getting wet thanks to sponge mats and slick, plastic grass that was more likely to give you a friction burn than a grass stain. I wanted to be the kids in those films, I wanted to feel snow on my skin, to need to take off a wet coat when I came in, be given a towel by my mother and a hot drink. Or at least I used to. Honestly, I do wonder what I’d tell my 7 year old self about the reality of being up here, how it feels to get soaked and have to dry off by a fire shivering in the dark and hoping that the light doesn’t draw the attention of anything that’s likely to try and kill you. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t go back now and I wouldn’t fit in if I did but would I warn my young self of what was coming in the future? Probably, maybe then I’d be better prepared.
