Memoirs of a Forgotten Man Part Three -- A Prologue It is night. The borders of the city have given way to certain understandings. A flow in the system.. of give and take.. of hazy perception. Locked down gates -- left over from a former regime -- are now lifted.. torn down.. rusted over. Unattended. The comings and goings no longer noted, at least not by any authority figure. No, those shadowy ledgers are kept in different hands now. With less official, if not less dark, agendas. Concentrating the daily effort on the unforeseen. The elements of natural progression. Peeling away degrees of separation. Along the paths that lead to this city's center. Through ruins and monuments. Hi-rising methodical testimonies of fundamental heroism -- held close within our sensibilities.. within our hearts.. marking time. Laying the groundwork for future generations. All hushed in the rhythm, the stop-beat that crosses perception, that sets the tone for possibility, that leaves space for now. Feeling your way along. Deeper into the unknown. Losing track of the path you have created.. the way out. Lines of communication drawing upon human intentions. Making evident the random connection. Stilled in the sense that you'd better keep moving -- there will be time for these arrangements, once the scores have been settled and the terms have been agreed upon. Thunder in the distance.. explosions.. the hour of subtle reminders. The storm has swept through, leaving its mark on the debris of containment... leaving town in a hurry -- to gather strength and assess the damage. And the calm is gaining momentum. Taking its time. Letting all the little things settle in their places. Undisturbed, once rested. And we're seeing the beginnings of a pattern beginning to develop.. among the ruined tapestries.. tattered remnants of some golden age -- waiting for the moment of resurrection that has long passed. Nothing left these days but bitter survival The humiliation of time passing, among these archival anomalies. One is left to wonder, feeling warmth in their lasting. All the dried stains of an incalculable set of mishaps. The eyes and feet are so tired, waiting for the rest that somebody promised back when. The olden days of tripping, of falling, getting up... and doing battle all over again. Who knows how many times the level has fallen.. what has drifted away?.. been forgotten? The regeneration of ages timed out. Taking your place among the surly surveyors. A familiar terrain. Weathered buildings standing in defiance of years and neglect. Faceless storefronts with benign signs of a life within.. dormant.. holding secrets. Stapled broadsides claiming victory, notices of a gathering, cryptic references to a time and a place. Voices coming from inside, from below, carried on this night's wind -- cold and comforting, greeting your arrival. But you are already past. This is not your place. Moving along at a deliberate pace, with a freshly torn treaty folded and tucked away, a future reference. Shrug it off.. keep moving. Deeper into the city.. into the night. Past foreign markings, tell-tale signs. Through narrowing streets, tripping on exposed cobblestone, from a time long past. Gas lamps casting their selective illumination. Shadowing your progress. Where are you? Where are you headed? Your gait relaxes.. it is clear. You are close. You can feel yourself stop. Taking stock of your awareness.. a feeling undeniable. You are here. It is night. The darkness has settled in and taken hold. There is much to be revealed. ~ ~ ~ Read Part Four Questions? Comments? Send them to Daily_Editor@hotmail.com. Copyright 2001-2008 © Belowthefold.net