Do not be deceived by the emptiness before you, for the voices of thousands fill the vacantness of this place.

The walls are lined with conversations had between people who were once here but now are gone.  The business people wheeling and dealing and coaxing and cajoling until they get their way.  The lovers giggling and whispering their ideals and secrets and sweet nothings without reserve.  The children squealing and laughing and chattering to their mothers all the excitement of a child’s heart.  The mothers gentle tones as they answer and agree and correct and partake in all the excitement of their child’s heart.  The mutterings and moanings of the elderly as they move without ease and despise the youth.  The harsh cries of the youth which they call out without consideration of another soul.  The chantings of the shopkeepers as they spruke their wares with both confidence and a hopefulness for the day.

The floor is littered with the moments of sadness and joy.  A job is lost, a child falls, a heart is broken.  A friend is found, a proposal is made, a helping hand is held out.  Each time an emotion is felt, a tiny little piece of it falls here creating a river that is waded through daily by the very people creating it, unbeknownst to them.      

The windows hold the reflections of the faces, doings and beings that have been here.  They are all there, captured forever but never to be seen again.  The vision of the lovers holding hands so tight so that this love in this moment will never go away.  The ruddy faces of children, beaming or frightened or anxious or joyful.  The sorrowful look of the old man who has no-one and nowhere to go, but he is here because it is somewhere to be.  The cunning glint in the eye of the business man making a deal to suit only himself and at whatever cost, and the ugliness that follows.  It is all remembered.  

The corners hold the secrets of the past.  A man who once had somewhere to be, yet he was here with someone he shouldn’t be.  The flash of the girl running as she escaped with things that are not her own.  Some under the table dealings of cheaters and liars who thought they could hide here.

This place is not an empty and quiet place.  It holds a cacophony of voices all talking at once and a lifetime of visions overlapping and merging.  It will never forget the happenings here, not the people nor the promises made.  It will not let go of the secrets it holds.  They are here forever and always.  They are stories you may never know, but if you stop and listen, you may hear a whisper, feel a shiver of sorrow or excitement, or a pang of sorrow or fear. 

Does she hear them though?  As she stands there facing the window, can she see the visions of the past?  Can she feel the living and breathing of this place?  Is she open to them?  Will she let them filter into her consciousness or will she soon bustle on, oblivious to all the happening of the decades past that float around her.  What is her story and how will it relate to the stories already around her?  What will she leave behind here?

As she walks through here, if she takes a moment to breathe, she may experience some emotions of the past.  She may let them take her troubles and shuffle them into an order that she can understand.  She may let her happiness be added to the jumble to be used by someone else, one day, when it’s needed.  She may allow herself to be enveloped by the blanket of belonging to be found here.  All she has to do is breathe, listen, allow.  Breathe.

Pollyanna Gray