An Exchange of Letters

There was a man sitting alone at a table outside a cafe, and he was not young.

This was strange; the street was filled with small clothing shops and art galleries. Most of the passerby was young and they looked at him as if he was out of place. Nothing was in front of him and he was staring into the blue sky.

He could be heard saying somthing to himself as he examined the horizon's division between land and everything else. It was: "I wouldn't believe it if it wasn't all I knew."

In truth he was daydreaming. He had a surprisingly good memory. It was like an eternal punishment to him.

He was Tantalus, reaching for those times, feeling what they felt like, breathing them in, but never able to forget that they were just illusions.

He watched himself in those moments. He took in the old sights. He yearned for one thing and that was to shout out to himself that his happiness would be fleeting so he should enjoy it while it lasted.

He could open letters he wrote those years ago to his future self. The narrators were shocked at their own age at the time of their reading.

But despite how much he tried he could not write back to their original senders.