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75
Lost yet never forgotten
Hamza Qureshi
M1G1
Lost, yet never forgotten. Time is the unseen inevitable entity which
has clutched the entire universe in its inescapable hands, firmly gripping everything in
place. Nothing is, or will ever be free from it, and that was truly evident with the neighbor-
hood street I was gazing at in awe. It had only been 10 years, yet it felt like I was standing in
the very place I wished it didn't turn into, yet there I was. As I looked around, I found myself
in a bustling dystopia, where the loud reviving of stylish super cars all screaming at the top
of their voices, rushed against the other passersby, who were also trying to race against this
very entity, thinking they could beat it, all while cautiously scurrying against a sinkhole
large enough to fit a small brown elephant, which opened the possibilities to many unexpect-
ed disasters.
All the smoke emitted from these vehicles, had caused the entire area to be covered with a
forest of smoke, which hugged the entire area with its perilous embrace, while everyone
resiliently battled against it. The once vibrant yellow paint on the streets had become nearly
non-existent, instead with large, defined cracks which had been formed. The traffic lights,
that acted like a guardian, a symbol of patience and discipline, had not been repaired, hence
causing unforsaken chaos. The place had been transformed into a busy marketplace, where
now, nothing but fraud and inflation reigned supreme, turning it into a haunted nightmare.
Towards my right, I noticed a wooden bench, holding on for its dear life. With patches of
black mold, advertisement stickers slapped on it, and a chipped leg it reflected how humans
have started to change their appearances as society has modernized. As I carefully sat on it,
while it let out a creek, a large wave of nostalgia flooded into my mind. It wasn't always like
this. Recalling those timeless memories shows a place not of gloom and constant revolution,
but of earthy, vibrant, and cozy ambiance.
The innocent laughter and gleeful noises of children echoed in my ears, as I looked upon the
grandeur of the blue sky, and the artful songbirds singing their cheerful melodies, while the
rustling leaves of the majestic trees flew across with the cool breeze. The place was a hazard
free zone, with the small tuck shops in front selling cheap, quality goods, and the enriched
personalities of people gave the place a much more welcoming, and safe feeling, but unfortu-
nately, now, none of that remains. They say every step leaves a print, no matter how small,
and those billions of steps have accumulated and transformed the way everyone looks at this
place. The once lush, peaceful street has now become just a shell of its former self. Trees have
been cut down or are left bald. Hazard creeps around in the once fresh air, and the strong,
safe roads. People now walk, bending their necks down like ostriches, looking at their smart
gadgets, while their appearances and care for their own culture has worsened.
This very street I just mentioned, is a reflection of how life progresses. It represents an old
person, road cracks like wrinkles on his aging face, fainted paint like pale skin, broken traffic
light and dim street lights, like losing the ability to think brighter like you used to. But one
thing, which will always prevail, that nothing can take away, even after dying, are the count-
less memories that it holds, and which it passes on to so many people. It may not be well
physically, but inside, it is still the same charming place it once took its pride in being.