Memories for sale

They decide to get rid of all their old lives
They imagine that distance is their comfort and abandonment is their safety, and they see forgetfulness as their consolation
The past is a predatory beast that they run away from with all their might
And they don’t even look for a moment behind them so that it doesn’t follow them.
They are terrified of everything that might remind them of the past, or they smell the effect of the memory.

They see that everything that binds them to yesterday hinders them from that new life that they draw and strive for with the utmost of their energy.
They willingly give up everything
Their memories, their dreams, their nostalgia, and all those who were with them yesterday
There is no need for a friend to see my memory in his face
There is no need for everything that reminds them of yesterday, so far away
There is no need for anything that awakens nostalgia or inflames the memory
There is no need for a perfume that has lost its splendor that smells from their chairs
And there is no need for those flowers hidden in their old notebooks
They keep it in an old chest that is suitable for everything that is old and is not needed anymore.
They put them next to those old boxes that others preceded them in placing them, and here they are teeming with remembrance and resounding with nostalgia, as they groan every now and then.
However, no one turned around or heard the groaning of the dolls and pictures, nor did he read the tears and pain in those worn out notebooks.
Days pass and they live the life they chose and complete the journey they started and keep panting and jogging non-stop until the best nostalgic sigh awakens the male genie from his slumber and shakes off the dust of days from him, so nostalgia becomes moaning.

They run to the old house looking for themselves, their truth, their feelings.
About true hearts that give them true love without purpose..
About real people.. about friends who believe them and really care about them
So, in the old house, which had become rubble, under which the features of their memories were lost, and then in the notebooks of life, which had turned into ashes, nothing remained of it except scraps of sadness and bleeding hope, whose fragrance began to seep and sigh in the place.

When feet get lost and lose the way and forget who you are and where you came from
And you don’t know where you’re going, you won’t distinguish the cheap from the precious
Nor are the jewels that embrace the chandelier from the rich that must be trampled upon.
You will not know the real from the fake, nor love from semi-love, nor friends from semi-friends, and you will not be able to distinguish the path that you must follow from the mirage from which you must escape and flee with yourself, your truth and your memories.Ghada Ata