Echoes.

Not a lot happening now. We’re fast approaching the last day, and already many of the people have left.

Gone.

Someone coughs somewhere, the noise resounding up and down the corridors, emphasising their emptiness. There’s a flurry of activity as someone hurriedly gathers up their things and rushes out the door, not wanting to be left behind, not wanting to lose contact with the people who have come to mean so much to them. Hurrying to retain their sense of belonging, their perception of worthiness.

There are the usual stragglers. Those who hang back, saying the last goodbyes, making last minute arrangements to meet up somewhere else. Even one or two who seek the honour of being the last one out when the doors are closed and locked for the final time.

It had spirit, this place. The spirit of all who walked the length of its corridors. Infused in the walls are all the dreams, the hopes, the loves (lost and found), the battles (and what battles!), the laughter, and the tears of every person who entered. Will these walls hold that spirit? Will we be able to come back at some future time and feel the vibrancy of human emotions, like we can in some old houses that are described as having ‘character’? Or will the humanity slowly melt away, much the same as ice does when you’re defrosting the freezer? One day, perhaps, we’ll know.

But in the meantime, we will move to a new place and hope to instill there the same spirit that we are leaving behind. Speaking for myself, I believe that when the doors shut for the last time, a piece of me will be trapped inside forever, impregnated in these walls.

I did it all here. Laughed, cried, got drunk, made some enemies, made some incredibly wonderful friends who will be there for life, gained respect, learned respect. I found an amazing lady who loves me, and whom I love so very, very much. My eyes water with the emotions I have for her.

It’s time to say goodbye. When I walk out the doors, I will be taking so much with me, leaving so much behind.There’s a great future ahead, and that’s the direction I'm looking in. But, every now and then, I’ll turn and look back. I’ll think of all that has happened here. And in my mind I will slowly walk through the empty corridors where the only footsteps are echoes, hanging in the air like dust motes.

"Echoes" © Writing The Image 2007/Peter Stone 2005