#n.writes

there's days you can't forget. the birthday of a friend you're not so sure you know anymore, the day the old lady who used to give you cookies parted with her husband, the day you and your friend do nothing but talk through the night. i don't like my mind on these days. it turns me into an insignificant little speck polluting the omipresent universe; an entity who knows lesser and lesser as they age. it forces me to grieve for the death of time, and the momentary life that existed in its presence.

alas, i loved you like the sun's tender light reflecting off the vial of ashes hanging around your neck. no matter the care i'd put in my eyes for you, your grief would shroud a veil of doubt over your eyes; this of all things you'd known with conviction. so with all the pieces of yourself you could collect, you became the wanderer of the streets. those ashes, they were yours from when you first died – the one where your garden of athanasias was burnt down forcefully. no amount of my kindness could remedy that. you now maunder day and night in a desperate attempt to bury your ashes, to live past the death of your first life; to find reasons to live a second.