it's not you, it's not me

Finally he was back there, on the streets of the city he had missed so much. He recognized the silhouette of the cityscape like he had in his dreams during the years he'd been away; and even if it had been long, his feet still knew the way on the winding streets without his head having to have to trouble itself. The smooth surface of the worn-out cobblestones was familiar to walk on and the sounds that echoed from the walls he couldn't stop himself from brushing with his fingertips every now and then had a familiar ring in his ears . The rattle of the tram as it passed by; the incomprehensible mixture of languages that swirled around him when he walked through the herds of tourists. Even the smells were the same; the invitation to eat from the street vendors selling everything you shouldn't be eating but absolutely wanted to, especially after a long night out, and the unmistakable combination of bodily odours in the overcrowded metro train.

There was the bench they had sat on after a night out, he and his friends, still drunk and merry as you only can be when you're twenty and in love with life, watching the sun come up over the roofs and not having to have to worry about anything besides perhaps the next day's headache. There was the bridge leading over the river, the same one he had walked on every night to get home from their favourite hang-out, sometimes stopping in the middle and staring down to the murky water that flowed underneath. And of course there was the street that led to his old home - it was strange to think now that he had had a home here - and on that street there was the small niche in the wall of a building, and there were memories nesting in that niche he could no longer bring himself to think of, so he looked the other way.

It was all there, just as he remembered; and yet it wasn't. It was no longer the same him who had walked on these streets and breathed in the intoxicating air of freedom and love and youth and friendship. The person who he was now no longer had access to the feelings that are possible to experience only when a memory of previous night's madness is still clear. He no longer remembered the details, just knew they were, or had been, somewhere; and even if walking on the streets of the city was able to revive some of them, he knew with painful certainty that many he had lost for good. And he could walk on the streets forever and in theory it would be the same city, his city; he could travel back in time in his mind and think about the things he had thought of then. But he could no longer feel them or understand them in the same way and he could not bring back the person he had been back then. No matter how long he would stare down at the dark water it would not be the same water, and it would not wash over him and his being the same way it had. 

And what he also realized, to his surprise and disappointment as well, was that the city wasn't an interesting place at all. Sure, it was beautiful, in a way that any city of the same age and geographical area is; but it was the kind of beauty that you get used to very fast, and after that you don't really pay attention to it any more apart from the moments when you have nothing else to talk about and you ooh and aah about the decorative facades and pointy church spears. But that was about all there was; the old historical centre, filled with generic shops selling useless trinkets and touristic restaurants were food was expensive and service below average. There was no magic, no energy contained in every surface and wall and no secrets behind ajar doors just waiting to be unveiled. Time had rendered either himself of the city unrecognizable; and one by one he watched how his memories turned insignificant and incomprehensible. 

After four days he left the city without the memories he had arrived with. The city had took them back very much like it had once given them, effortlessly and unapologetic. It was consoling, in a way, to know that the forming events of his life were stored somewhere in the seams of the cobblestone pavements and in the dark passageways known only by a few. He no longer had access to these memories in a way that would have done justice to their importance; therefore it was a relief to leave them in the place that had given birth to them. He no longer was the person who he had been and he no longer needed to be; the city had done its task.