There'll always be a part of me that pines after the quiet places (and the loud ones, whispering).
The natural spaces, the birds in flight, the rush and tumble of the early-morning fog, dancing. Those memories that are just-mine, the way I can grant them immortality in writing, the songs that helped me see the night sky through light pollution and the din of certain clamorous events.
I want to write a memoir someday, a reflection on what and who made me truly alive. I'll have to study the roots of my past, and eat the fruit that those gnarled roots have grown.
I hope it tastes bittersweet, because otherwise, how will those who come after know that I have lived?
I want those who remember me to know that I was here, and to think about me from time to time. Even if it's just my name, or what I stood for, I want to know from the after-life that I have not been forgotten. At least for a short while. I think I can bear being forgotten to the abyss and hopelessness of time, eventually.
Tell those who come after that I was broken, and strong because of it.
Tell them that while I suffered from a crippling and never-ending case of melancholia, my depression was not what fell me. My sadness was not what fell me. It was not, I promise. I never fell, I never died, I never left them. I just flew away, to another place, to another time, to rest and love and cry, if I need to. I flew away to sleep, finally, blessedly. To sleep away my horrors.
And that it was okay that I did so.
Tell them that it'll be okay.
