Late in the afternoon, darkness starts to swamp our neighbourood; it was finally time to go out in order to count the living deads. Without a second thought, dressed up but wrapped up in our winter jackets, off we go. Let’s the hunt begin ! And if some houses only had their porch’s light to show their participation, others used decorations worthy of horror movies. Few are those who don’t give a shit about that day here, in North America. And so the gathering is massive. The girls yomp, their bag full of candies in hand, grinning from ear to ear. After not even an hour, it’s time to get back home, deep night showed up.
I terribly miss the frivolity of being a child.
And there is this sentence, which goes on and on and on lately in my mind:
People aren’t schmucks until you leave .
I have to admit it’s not a happy thought in this day of celebration, nevertheless, it’s the truth. People too often believe that by going away, you have a wish to turn your back on everyone. Bullshit. I don’t forget my past, I’m only living my present.