The Depths Of Forget

This great mountain of burden causes my body to shudder. Causes my body of work to bear the signs of it's stress.

A fissured soul bears the marks of emptiness. This crevice of unspeakables cries out, to the curious, for exploration. I ignore their cries like a man ignores the wind.

Tis a heavy life. Yet, still I stand.

I have given up, or away, everything I have ever loved. And only that which has returned are worthy of the words.

Tis an old truism. Yet, still they stand.

How does one engage that in which is lost? How does one describe those infinite holes?

Does he exclaim, "It is fairly big. It is immensely deep."

Does he lament, "You should have seen the contents. I remember them only as some beauty lost. I remember only the tragedy of it's birth."

I suppose we all come to accept our pock-marked surfaces. As merely some forgotten piece of the whole. Eventually we come to forget their meaning as we trudge forward.

Except, of course, when we are alone.

Alone, I wish to pay remembrance to these black holes of nothingness. These, beyond human understanding, existences that swallow our past moments. Only to spew forth our new beginnings.

I wonder if this is what I have become for you?

A black wind of erasure. Not the chalk board, nor it's proofs. Merely a way to lose the moment, so you may once again be reborn. I shall swallow your yesterdays, regardless of the cost.

What is the price of becoming such a figure?

It is dear, dear friends. Trust in this. For as your memory, I cannot create my own.