They are vivid, the memories. How could they not be with all of the remnants of you strewn around this space? The rings around these fingers are not permanent. It is true that the hand feels lighter without them there.
Objects from past lives are historical relics that hold more value than the memory can see.
I asked the sir what to do with the pieces. He told me to house them in a museum, to let the dust collect, behind the glass casing. I should have asked him if I belong behind it as well sitting within the desperate display. To become the viewer is to become the stranger.
The girl told me the velvet dress was meant for her. A Russian princess with words as soothing as the sun and a soul that had never known sadness. I was convinced all of these things were truly her possessions. I confess I hid behind a locked door when she came to fetch them. Fanciful thoughts hoping to transcend into her shoes flowed through my mind.
It panned out momentarily as a flicker of hope.
The ruins are indestructible; the sorrowful halo surrounding them revels a massacre. Do faltered hearts learn to carry on or do they sink like this ship?
The unusual is frightening, the unknown can be dangerous. Protests for the never future have become heavily induced by the more pleasant history.
They are enveloped in grand delusions.
When the teacher was informed of the incident, he handed over a box with a handle and the key. He instructed me to organize a retrospective, and then to continue this tradition with my spirit. Within the box, I built walls of separation. I placed the words on the tissues and hid them deep in the objects. I placed them among one another and closed the lid. The teacher lent a passing grade along with a sympathetic nod.
Eventually precise moments, exactness of words will fade and become vague recollections. The general oeuvre, contained within, will be available for revisit; placed aside for momentary precaution.
The landlord scanned the luggage of the new tenants. Her gaze fell to the black box covered in grime. Curiosity of its contents arose, something of the deepest melancholy permeated. She gazed into the eyes of girl who had placed it there. Without sound, she understood. There is never a completeness in any departure.
We learn to exist in new realizations churned with whisps of the past. Never over diluting. Not forgetting to remember. Finding the exact measurement takes the greatest conviction.