"I must have hit my head a lot harder than I had anticipated, or maybe breathe too much smoke because this is definitely nut-case crazy. Or a very creepy dream that feels way too real for my own good. I can pat my subconscious on the back for that o...
Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
I wake up in a European street. I'm not good enough in architecture to know which country, but I know the general vibe this place has.
People are walking around, but there's a strange, heavy atmosphere in this place. It's almost suffocating.
I look around myself. I try to situate myself.
Why this painting?
I think I spot the reason, standing on a sidewalk.
There's a young man with a little sketch book in his hands, and paint stains on his fingers.
He's the most plausible culprit.
I walk up to him. Since he's just standing there, and doesn't look like he's in a hurry, it doesn't seem too strange to talk to him.
"Hi," I say.
He frowns, but replies. "Hello."
"Why does everyone seem so gloomy?" I ask him, point blank. No point in beating around the bush.
His frown depends. His voice drops. "We just declared war. Haven't you heard?"
"War?" There's been many wars in Europe and people are not wearing modern clothes. I have no point of reference. I need more information.
But then I notice a poster a little further away on a wall, and I realize... we're in Germany.
Fuck.
"Wait... what year is it?"
He looks at me like I'm crazy, but this is very important to know. My stance will drastically change depending on his answer.
"It's 1914."
I kind of let out a sigh of relief.
I'm in Germany. In 1914. The First World War has just started.
The sigh of relief doesn't last long though, because suddenly I feel immense grief for the young man standing beside me.
I might not be super knowledgeable when it comes to art, but I know what happens to young men during the First World War.
I don't know what happens to him specifically. Maybe he will survive this. Maybe he won't die.
Bur even if he doesn't die, I know what will happen. He won't be coming back the same.
The First World War destroyed a whole generation. If he survives the war, he'll come back broken.
This creative spark I can see in his eyes, it'll be flushed out.
And I don't think there's anything I can do for him.
"Thank you for telling me," I say, smiling sadly at him. "And I'm sorry."
"For what?"
I don't tell him. Telling him will not change anything. Maybe it's better if he goes into this without losing all hope.
Maybe it's better if he stays clueless.
He'll learn soon enough.
And I don't even know which outcome is the best. Dead or broken?
I walk away, and around the streets. Everywhere, people seem distressed. They don't know what's going to happen, but they know it's not going to be good.
They're right to be worried.
Things are not looking up for Germany from now on.
I sit on a bench. I look at the people.
There's something so strange about seeing them getting around their days, trying to act like everything is normal, when everything is about to be broken.
I sit there during the whole day.
I look at these people and think about how fleeting life is. I don't die, not really.
