and in between of it, to be remembered is nothing.
someday, you’ll vanish and won’t be recognized even as ruins. you used to wander and leave your touches in everything you love, you used to engrave your words in its rawest form and hope they will remain forever, that they will live every time someone speaks your name for the very first time. the souls, perhaps, are too genuine to think they will never face defeat in disguised as tombs. you often put sad things away than live with it for you know it makes you bleed but sometimes, you’re loving the pain and hoping it’s another thing to be remembered. in every time you breathe, you know you create memories: a lot of shadows in every home you abandoned and a lot of footprints in every favourite places you promised you’ll never trace again. you are often busy making a history but sometimes too sad to recognize even your scars. you want to be remembered like the best poem ever written. breath after breath, with the seconds of infinite—you’ll realize it won’t matter still.
someday, the eyes will blink for the very last time and it’s when life is only a memory. knocking in the insides of mind. slowly fading. it’s when you’ll find yourself grasping all the things you can keep in the farthest parts of your mind. you will be reaching to the very last reason of yourself fighting to let go or to live. and in there, the seconds will become too long to wait. their eyes will stop shining for you and only your shortness of breath will matter. seconds before you wait will feel like another lifetime but in there, the way you grasp the last words knows better. centuries after centuries, no one will ever die crying about you. not even a sigh and not even a heartbeat would be made for you. your name will roll over the graves of the people who swore to give you eternity. your very last piece will roll over the piles of them and everything will be quiet. so then, in between of last breaths, you’ll remember yourself; you’ll grasp all your remains before it ends. you’ll embrace all the fear until you finally forget that someday, they’ll hear your name—
and they won’t even think you’re real.
— 01:59 l. sin, not a memory
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from Beautiful Bizarre Magazine
