I lay face down in the sands till I’m finally at peace with the scratching at my arms and the corner of my eyes.
I am not lonely, I am just spending more time thinking. I’m not depressed, I’m just suffering a deep, deep pain in my soul. I don’t know what I’m thinking, nor do I know what pain is like, because I have forgot what the alternatives really feel like.
We make small conversation, we talk about the weather and the friends we used to have. We twirl our toes as we sit cross-legged, tiptoeing around what really matters. We would like to feel ‘normal’ again, I’d like to spend time with you that is ‘normal’. We rush to avert ourselves from our reality, and devour every moment we can pretend things are fine as they are.
We try to speak of hope, but the shadow looms above us. I lie to you all the time, but it’s only because I yearn so hard to believe that lie, and you are the only one who can help me do that. Take it away from me, and you’ll just have the bare-bone remains of a man who lost all hope. I don’t want to be that man.
In a purple haze the conversation drifts to the times we try to forget. We sit in an elastic silence, threatening to break if it stretches further. It has been five years already, what remains of us of the angry, defiant young people who went out that day? Do you even remember what it feels to shout out at the top of your voice in defiance, siphoning the strength of those who stand with you like a pillar reaching out to lightening in the sky?
It suddenly gets much colder, and I shiver at the glimpses I see of the living, vibrant creature that rose from the ashes we were born as, to become something more than anyone ever imagined. I cuddle closer to you for warmth, but your skin freezes my fingertips, and send spikes into my brain as I lay my head in your lap.
We are legends no more, we are not even fantastical stories like we thought we might be. We are just whispers spoken of in the dark of nights by those cuddled around a fire, trying to realize why the fire burns cold rather than warmth.
We fall into silence again, but the stories well at the corner of our eyes. They’ll joke about it and blame us again, and we’ll die again. They don’t know that one day, we would not rise again. And the worst is, we won’t even be remembered anymore, nor will they really care.
They won’t tell our stories, they won’t tell our tales, they won’t honor our dead nor respect our remains. At the end, when the plague spreads endlessly, it will all fail and wither away like it always has. And when we fade back into ashes like we always were, the taste on the tip of our tongues will be all that remains.
And it’s worth it, a thousand times over.