Thousands of years later, a suburbanite, slugging through the cold rain on a sad day hauls bags of garbage, bits of his life, miles away to a site where other suburbanites have gathered to pile their bits of life together forming a temple of discarded souls.
There was a time I wanted that thing, that toy, that object. It was the coolest thing ever. But it broke, or failed, or worse, drifted from my attention, like putting Grandpa out on the ice flow.
Why do we gather crap in the first place? It's only going to wind up in the forever building pile.
What is the future? Is it touchable? Tangible? It only happens the instant it passes into history, like a snowflake falling, here it comes, there it goes.
What is history? Sharp in focus, blurring with age and memory. Names and faces that have gone, but where?
The time we have together, the moment frozen in a poloroid, the smiles and laughter, tears and pain, the here and now is all that matters.
I'm crying now. Happy, empty, cold and loved. Memories are warm around me.
There will come a day when I am discarded. Added to the pile. I hope to see another sixty springs showers, summer days, autumn nights and winter snows.
I look to the future.
Dragging my pile of stuff, their souls never discarded.
Their memories of happiness, safe within me.