A wonderful day in past lies in question as if it was under the inquisition of whether it was truly wondrous or simply an illusion of the heart. Simply, and utterly more complex and uncomfortable to ponder on, as if the very thought sat in front of oneself and began to play a requiem of the soul using the heart strings. As said, in this uncomfortable situation, the world begins to narrow, fold and crack, wrinkle under the pressure, and ultimately shape into a sickly heart, which then burst into flames of a passion that should no longer be. "Dowse the flame" one might scream in panic while the tenderfoot is too startled and shocked to move, all the while, the wise one sits and painfully attempts to understand the quarrel and warms oneself by the flame. Yet in such, no answer can be found yet only sweetly cursed and remembered as a rose like memoir. Crimson and beautifully blossoming as it developed, yet only to hide the twisting vines that sprout thorns that sting when held, as one remembers.
By the time one is able to recuperate the train of thought and sees the flame still burning strongly like an undying testament to the various dispositions that occurred in the frames of time, the mind would wander to inquiries. One would angrily yell such banter at the flame for still burning as brightly as it does, whence tears of one's eyes would flow from the cusp of the lid, overflowing downward into a waterfall, which carves it's course onto the cheek, slowly making its careless way to the chin as it falls to the ends of oneself, never to be understood. In such an image, one's angry voice trembles and crumbles from unsure resolve to an unstable frontier of melancholy. As such one fall to one's knees and begins closing up into a shell of nothingness and impenetrable dusk, illuminated by an obsessive inferno of passion long buried under hatred.
Inside the shell, no warmth is found, only the chilling hands of the mother-like denseness of the thick, shapeless void that smothers one in a frozen love that bars the life of one--rather the will of life as one would live. In this lifeless shell, dusk would stand eternal and as such as dusk is, in turn so is the wintry world abound to one's former liveliness. In such coldness, nothing grows nor anything sparks up and lightens the frosting of oneself, and the flame that once warmed one becomes the very moon to eclipse the sun in one's soul. Inside this shell, one becomes frozen and paralyzed willingly to hopefully escape the thoughts that are brought on by the ghastly flicker of the passionate fire before one's sealed eyes. Numbly curled up like a child attached to a blanket, slowly receding into the breathless depths the precede cognitive responses but rather the most primal of one's desire: survival.
Although numb, the shell is then molded into a pelt that covers one like armor. One would then walk aimlessly, unaware of the world beyond the darkness that covers the body. Walking for the simple reason to walk, no other reason would come to into clairvoyance of thought. As which one would do, the days would pass like years and weeks into decades, months to centuries, and a year would pass like a millennium. Truly one would thoughtlessly become a cruel joke of an immortal, crudely becoming a living semblance of deathly emptiness itself, ultimately ending up as a godless, paraplegic in heart and soul. If one would gaze into a mirror in such formlessness, one wouldn't recognize the being they are or were but rather nod their head in silent greeting at the stranger in the mirror and continue walking.
The fire would be engraved in one's simple memory, and like the rose it is would sting and be strung around the heart strings with similar actions that once occurred. Déjà Vu would come across other's mind but in such situations the term would be too light and lacking the true grasp of such distress. The proper term would be haunting. A true haunting, not of one's the are made of spectral beings but rather the ghost of a passion long remembered, the ceaseless image of a flame that brings no light, and the wintry life of one as result of such events. The haunting of one's mind like an obsessive scholar, curious at first, but then gravely falls into the tormenting cycle of analysis and undiscovery, never to be escaped by the blighted. This is a burden of the passion known as love, true love. At once it was the single reason for life but then struck down into the paralytic and unsealing wound that slowly festers into a ferrous infection that becomes one's identity for time as the once beating heart fails to operate properly. Such wounds may scab over eventually but all the latest for the mind of the sufferer would have been scarred by the disease. As the scab would open occasionally, the pain would flow like the crimson once more until an abnormality of the flesh would remain in the end. Such a scar would be discolored, inflated by the irritation of one's itching hands, and aching from the occasional attempts of the body to settle right the deformity.
The mark would then become a figurehead of the original passion known and the haunting would never cease. Obvious to all others, the mark would become an omen to all who dare trend one's former solid ground, only to be met with quakes of uncertainty and lapses of insecurity. This would widen a channel of libel towards one and others would cease to tread the path anymore. In turn would the malleable void but a mantle of true loneliness and despair. The individual, bearing such living incoherence, would stop walking as one does eventually and sit down for a time. One would succumb to the misfortunes that plagued oneself and begin to glimpse slowly at the long and the written. Possibly one's mind would wander back to the scar, back to that flame, and back to the love lost. If so, one would cherish the moments of such a time. One would weep at such loss once more and gleefully understand the world that was once then, as if each detail of then was inscribed in the very core of oneself, to the point of the descendants of one would recall the very haunting that has plagued their ancestor for one's life. As such with such retrospect, one would say goodbye and lay resting in a mantle of uncertainty, insecurity, loneliness, darkness, winter, and love unforgotten covered by the soil stepped on for years uncountable and swallowed by a final dusk as the spirit would fade away. Yet the flame would still burn in futility and as a cruelty unlike any other as one has perished in body, yet in reality they died long ago before such finality was signed.
To some, one would not let themselves stoop to such depravity despite the overwhelming burden of such pain. This event would fuel their growth and eventually would bloom into the glory of all that they are and the acceptance all that is not. Such people are made of earthly clay and sprout from shells of despair like seedlings grasp the sunlight, unaffected by such crepuscules. Yet oneself is who decides the route of whether to root themselves and growth or stay in the stasis of a true haunting.
