I walk down that street. Not for the first time. Not for the last time. But it’s different. Everything is gray. Blunt. Do I have depression? I don’t know.
I walked that street a thousand times before. It’s not beautiful. Like it’s just not. The houses are kind of old. The ground is paved with gray betony stones, which are not in order anymore. Dislocated by the roots underneath. But there is no green. No trees. Okay, to be fair there are six trees. But they are all newly planted. And these wired cages of wood are built around them. Hey, I get it. They need protection for growing. But honestly, dead trees support the straight, unfree growth of young, cultivated trees in a concrete hell. I am not sure about that. I know what they say. We need more green in the cities. I don’t disagree. Trees, yeah. But is that the way?
We destroyed nature. And now what? We just built it up again on our own terms. Is that the right way? I really don’t know. It is so gray here. I don’t like it. The sky is gray. The houses are gray. The ground is gray. Why is everything gray? When did the world lose its color? I mean is it just me? I don’t know. There are people around laughing. There are young children, vibrating with life. But what happened to me? Am I just old? Years passed by me.
Long ago, I was young. Vibrating with life. What happened? They say time spares no one. Fine. I didn’t expect time to spare me. I lived a life. I had my fair share. But was that it? Is it over now? Why does it feel like it? When I was younger, the old folk would look down on us and tell us the youth knew nothing. They would say everything was better in the old days. Now, I am the old folk. And they were right. The old days were better, and the youth knew nothing. Knowledge is a curse. To be young and dumb gives you freedom. You just long to be all grown up. But you are not prepared for the burden to carry. Not prepared for the knowledge. You can’t go back. Once you know, you know. And it’s gone. The old folk grieve their youth. I grieve my youth.
Everything is possible. Nothing unreachable. It is gorgeous. Beautiful. Look at them. The young people are in their best state. Vivid, in full life. They are all beautiful. They radiate it around them. And then they grow old. Every bit of life sucked out of them. Every free thought gets taken. All their hopes and dreams, all their freedom just gone. And what remains is an old person. Knowledgeable. Wise. Unfree and knowing. Knowing about the beauty of youth. A beauty the youth can’t see themselves. It’s not a coincidence. It’s the circle of life. You must go through the stages. Come along all the stops on the way to gain knowledge. There is no way around it. And in the end, there is beauty in knowing about it. Being able to see what is happening, and how the world is made. But it comes with a note of sadness. It comes with the knowledge that you have figured it out and now it is too late. You can’t relive that stage. But it wouldn’t be possible either way, because being free, as the youth is, comes from not knowing. From being new. From wanting it all. From seeing a world of possibilities. The youth we see now is different. Broken from what will come. Broken from a world that withdraws the freedom of choice. A dark future of ruin. But there wasn't always darkness and destruction.
What makes it now so finally? Is it the lack of green, of color? Is it the grayness of our age? My generation will be gone soon. A generation lived in the best that time could offer. No big war, no hunger, just growth. So, was it all better before? It led us to today. Is it our fault? Is it the fault of time? The world has changed. But have humans changed at all? I don’t think so. Can it change? I don’t know. Who will help the world if not the humans? God? What is happening? Is it just me? I will die soon. It gives me comfort. I will not see what happens next. But I feel guilt and shame. Shouldn’t a person plant a tree? Nurse it. Help it grow until the generation after it can sit in its shadow and eat its fruits. I haven’t done that. There is no tree that can be my legacy. I don’t think that makes me a villain. Not even a bad person. It just makes me an ordinary human. But does that help me with the guilt I feel? No. I am not the problem. But I also am not the solution. I just see gray. I am gray. I turned gray. I am sorry.
Written by India Wittmershaus.
Illustration by Jaro Mettinisson.