A stream of consciousness to the stimulus of ‘time’.
Though I am aware of the consequences, it still doesn’t seem to help. On my own or with company, I am trying to find the perfect place in which I can adopt my new state of mind. Now that the ashes have been blown away by the ever-shifting winds, I am left with but a photograph as a memory. This may sound confusing, but allow me to expand.
The ink and paper remain, fused into one another. Yet like ink, my memory will fade. Day by day, the same winds that shifted your ashes, and the same damaging elements that work in tandem will eventually make you disappear. Like my memory, the ink will fade. One would say that you have been immortalised, yet a flat, breathless figure is not the work of the Gods, and your photograph will only succumb to the same fate as your true self did; by the breeze.
Time is but a thought. Some may think that there is an eternal measure of the whole universal advancement, but they would be blinded by the very thing that they keep strapped to their wrist. Time is but man’s fiction so that we may keep up with our selves.