The Streets Are Grass
Back then we had history; we had a past. All that is gone now. All that remains are these ruins from a time long gone. A time that will never return.
Even now, amongst the younger ones, the past is just a place of stories and wonder. Just tales told around the fires at night by the old ones.
Even us older ones find the memories fading. The history is becoming myth and legend. Sometimes I find it hard to remember what was true and what a story. Back in those days, we had so many stories. We had books, TV, films and computer games. There were even News programmes that took the chaos of a day and turned it into a story the television could tell us before it tucked us up for the night.
Now, the only stories we have are what we remember and the handful of books that were not used for fuel. Back in the early days, back when we still felt a strong pull back to the old world, we thought we would get the power back, get the towns and cities back. We thought that, in time, a new world would grow from the ruins of the old world. But all that grew in the cities were weeds, then other plants and now there are trees growing out of what used to be an office block and the streets are grass.
Survival was all that mattered, and some of us did indeed survive. Now, though, we old ones, the few that remain, are the only connection back to that old world. A world that to the young ones contains more monsters and ghosts than the possibility of civilisation. So, now I wonder if that old world can ever come back once we old ones are gone and forgotten.