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June 22, 2020 / Congau


An empty house is sadness, a shell that has lost its purpose.

The ruins of an ancient town where the last man left centuries ago, is now lying in a deserted landscape, overgrown with grass. A civilization was once built here, people had their lives in this place, they worked and played, but then they left. Were they violently rooted out? Did they slowly die until one day a few lonely creatures found themselves abandoned? Why or why not?

The field was the site of an ancient battle. It is known from the history books, but nothing reveals its story now. A modern man is standing in the field, thinking he can see the thirty thousand soldiers and their horses, their swords and spears and shields. He hears the clamor, he believes, resounding through the centuries. It must still be there. The fight must still be going on. Then is now. He opens his eyes, but the grassland is vacant. The survivors have fled and there is not a trace of the slain who must have littered the ground. It happened hundreds of years ago; it was gone then, and it remains gone.

The house is vacated. Will it so remain? The old tenants have moved out, but other will move in. Not the same but the same.

The town is vacated. It so remains. One civilization disappeared, but somewhere else another one sprang up. Not the same but the same.

The battlefield is vacated, but battles are still ranging. The fight goes on and on. The world is never at peace with itself. It is good then to return to that ancient site of strife and find it all so quiet. The war went elsewhere and here silence reigns.

It is sad to be abandoned. It is joyful to escape.

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