The Viaduct

Once upon a time, there lived a simpleton who went by the name of Ben Willoughby. He did not know what was to happen to him shortly after he crossed that long, narrow viaduct, and he did not care. He was a person who lived for today and did not worry about tomorrow. That’s what he used to say to himself and it was good to live like this. Why worry about the future? Too many young people devote their time and stress on a future that would be hard to realize, embody, or at least with the attitudes that they harbour - Ben thought - ending in a petty, lackadaisical mindset of work that will haunt them for the rest of their lives. This applied to him, too. He was also a part of the infamous youth, youth that was too lazy to do, did not have the courage or the gut to stand up to something big and good. But he wanted to change. Ben differed from the rest in that he had a dream, he wanted to achieve something more than become the average salesman, shopkeeper or a clerk. Waking up on a gloomy Monday morning with an eager smile on his face was his dream. To be the best at something is, undeniably, the apex of one’s professional career. To be the big fish. Or so he thought.

He had a lot on his mind, be it most simple of troubles and concerns, yet all very important to him, at the time. Walking across the long stretch of the magnificent, beautiful bridge (whose name and exact location the author of this story cannot recall) to which Ben grew so much accustomed to that, even if he tried, could not appreciate the full extent of the work and planning that went into the construction of this gargantuan structure. This was not because of a lack of appreciation of the arts, but more to do with the amount of impact it had on his daily life. The viaduct was a swarm of long-forgotten memories, Ben got so used to walking across it that the bridge lost all its sentimental value, lost the definiens of memento, of all things that he once held dear; the long early morning walks with his father, the many dawns and sunsets that filled his young heart with very patriotic, almost fanatic, feelings of love for his country. All of it, gone. The bridge was engrained, embedded into his memory so much that he felt indifferent about it, yet if something was to happen to it, he would sorely miss the structure, like one would miss sleep. Ben took the viaduct for granted. Most villagers did. After all, it was the only safe passage to the airport, and then the capital.


That’s a start for a story. I’m not really sure how to expand it, yet. Thinking...

$root - whoami
story starter
Four Weeks

// Go back in time

Infographics. Again.

// To the future

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