A City That Remembers Every Crack
I have learned not to interrupt. I was standing long before you learned to measure time in deadlines. When you live as long as I have, interruption actually feels childish. I watch instead. I listen. I collect moments, the way dust gets collected on windowsill, all quietly, patiently and without complaints. You pace fast through me, measuring life in deadlines and detours, convinced that speed is the same as progress. I let you believe that. You think I forget. I bet, you assume memory fades as the dust settles and the noise fades. But memory doesn’t need announcements, it settles into me slowly through walls into roads, into small cracks you step over without looking at me. When you see, you call them imperfections. I call them records. I call them memories that refused to stay hidden. I call those cracks as diaries written without ink. I remember them as the ignored conversations. I call them scars. You admire me for being long lived, silent , strong and take pride in stan...
