Memories Don't Die

It was one silly novel that I read by Meg Cabot, I don't even remember it's name, it was years ago. I remembered it today, she said something with that meaning: "the only place that is always free of spirits is cemeteries, because spirits who still can't cross to heaven were killed and are waiting for their vengeance in the place where they killed."

Today was the first time for me to walk in Mohamed Mahmoud street after President Morsy won the elections. It felt heartbreaking at first; this place where so many have died, the place where I feel the presence of their spirits, today they felt disappointed. This was the street museum that tells the story of a revolution that has seen so much. Both its drawing and its memories tell the story of the 18 days, of the street committee that used to search me with a smile. Of the Utopia that was there for 18 days, just 18 days. Of families who lost a member for our sake being hit and shot at. Of eyes of freedom being shot. Of Ultras' protests and songs, the real meaning of friendship.

Now all is gone, but the street remains, and the memories remain. The paintings are gone, but will be drawn again. After walking down the street of memories that will never be forgotten all my sadness was gone, for I knew that idea will never die.

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