How come the stories written decades ago came to haunt us in real life? They used to be just that - stories, someone's reality interspersed with figments of imagination. They lured and frightened at the same time, shocked and disturbed. But being a mix of the reality and fiction it created a safe distance. There was never any serious danger to be completely immersed in its intricate web, not being able to break free.
It was fascinating and exhilarating to stand on the edge and look down at the abyss all the way knowing you will never fall.
When the world came suddenly crashing down one afternoon the mind was to busy processing the damage of an ongoing drama, questioning the survival itself.
The sequence of days and hours running on parallel lines, braking the framework of what used to be a familiar reality.
How could have they known what was about to happen years into the future? How was it possible to soak up all the pain to draw the picture that would make you shudder reminding of the nightmare too fresh to acknowledge completely, process in your mind in order to put it to rest and move on when it was still here to remind of all the atrocities that burned your eyes as soon as you shut them to get some sleep, all the pain that so close to the surface that any careless move could release it through million pores and drown you.
The gates are closed for now but just barely keeping inside its treacherous content.
How all these seemingly abstract ideas, places, people, events touch the wounds inside yet too fresh to heal? The power of sight, premonition or long-forgotten past that survives somewhere on the edge of the brain signaling not to forget something that once existed, had a meaning and vanished.
Opening doors on your way you might inadvertently stumble on something you never imagine in your wildest dreams you'd live through and survive to tell about, too close to home to be ever forgotten...