Remember this time well, this night that will never return. Feelings will be forgotten; emotions will be lost. Memories do no justice in the face of cynicism. As I listen to the sound of the blues, the words uttered echo in my mind: a fleeting reminder of the past. Forgotten emotions, waiting, silent, patient at the back of my conscious re-emerge furiously, a symphony of sadness.
What happens when that which that means the most to you must end?
As I sit here, thinking, the seconds and minutes of our lives slowly fade, like an avalanche, it leads on to hours and days, months and years. When will it end? How can we stem the tide? Nothing is forever, the story must end. "Forever is such an overused word, that we never understand its full connotations. It has merely c"ome to represent an illusion of comfort and safety. The very cynicism and melancholy that i have repressed becomes my muse. As I sit here, the lie is slowly revealed, the truth is understood. Life is the great deceiver. And worst yet, time looks on, without mercy, without compassion.
"...and the truth shall make you free"
What do we have?
Friendships, relationships, and bonds unbreakable, at once unique and at once irreplaceable, forged under stresses, tempered under time, only its maker can unmake it. Strong as they are, they are unable to withstand time. And the stronger they are, the longer they are, the greater the hurt. The illusion that these bonds offer; the comfort and security of an ideal is shattered. For better or for worse, inevitably it must end. It always does. We can no longer replace them in our hearts, our minds, and our souls. We are only left with their memory. It lingers on, bittersweet. No longer will we sit and talk in the same way. No longer can we meet and eat in the same way. No longer will we be same again, except in our memories. Optimism endures as I imagine friendships holding strong. Images of reunions. Cynicism reigns as I look into the past, showing portents of the future.
Another Illusion
We hope to capture the moments, to store each precious memory in our brains, accessible at our fingertips. Is it so powerful then that it can replace the physical? Does the metaphorical triumph? Can the sublime hold sway, supreme? Or are they merely illusions upon illusions that we create to comfort ourselves? We believe what we want to believe, our memories are merely cheap copies. Intangible. Everything is forever in our minds, and there, everything is forever defined by our minds.
"Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust"
The more you love the more it hurts, when you look back at what you've lost, there are times when the pain just seems unbearable. I mourn not for what has gone, for it makes no difference, but I mourn now for what is to come. While the past can never be relived except in our memories, we can endeavour to give purpose to our lives through hope. Mark Twain once wrote: "Let us endeavour so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry." The passing of loved ones shall ever be mourned.