Take My Hand – The story

Imagine, for a moment…

We’re sitting together on a bench, on a bridge overlooking the river mouth.  The sun is rising or setting across the horizon, painting watercolours in the sky.  You open your mouth, as if to say something, and you take my hand.

And it isn’t until then, until that moment that you know.  For the first time, you take my hand goodbye.

And a meteorite or a plane or something streaks across the sky to shatter the bridge’s foundations, and you drag me with you, or I drag you, as we race to get off the bridge before it falls.

With the bridge, collapses our life together.  Moments that we thought we had turn to ash in our mouths, and you can’t remember if we were ever truly happy.  Perhaps we were just trying too hard to accept the truth.

The city we run through is a photo album, an architectural collage of our lives together, mismatched balconies and rooftop gardens which make no sense except in the particular psychography of sharing an era.

It’s our city, more so than any of its component parts ever were.  And it doesn’t care about us, because those cities never did, and it doesn’t always support us, because those cities seldom do, and it tries to stop us, because it knows we’re passing through.

We grab and catch and throw each other across an endless processions of architectural memories, racing hand-in-hand through this museum of us.
Sometimes, I fall and you catch me.  Lift me up to your level.  Sometimes, it’s you that jumps to grab my hand.

We work together.

We have to.