Past Life

It is so wonderfully difficult holding a life that has been lived in latter days...sifting fingers through untimely memories that couldn’t possibly be forgotten...pressing wishful gaze into the perfect darkness. Sorrowful because the time has escaped me and shall never be returned. The words that have been lived through me cannot be lived again but sleep serenely forever as my most precious memories. They say that, if I love them so, I must read them again to bring relief; yet all that I find is sadness, for such wonders are a part of my past, and reliving one’s past will never be the same as the time of its happening. Knowledge of this idea is terribly disturbing...I am so deeply in love with a memory that grows ever more distant with the passing moments, and all that my power enables me is to desperately hold onto as much as I can. I am helpless as the memories fade to a pure and perfect wisdom that lives far away in the depths of my conscience. Few things, my dear, bring tears to my eyes, but the power that such a thought has over me is far too strong.