45: And we are slowly coming to an end with the first book of memories (written in the early hours of Friday 4 December 2015)

45: And we are slowly coming to an end with the first book of memories (written in the early hours of Friday 4 December 2015)

The first book of memories is nearly finished, done, filled (almost) and then it will be time to hide this book, only to rediscover it again later, a long time into the future, like a reminiscence of a past long and forgotten…

You forget what it was like to really handwrite. You forget what it was like to stay up beyond midnight and pen down your late night thoughts underneath a hand-held flashlight to help you see your words. It is a familiar but such a forgotten feeling…you’ve been wanting to write drabble for a while here. Off you go, young child, my sweet…

Glittering stars scattered across the night tonight. Somehow they seem to glisten with happiness in her eyes, her lovely doe brown eyes. You remember that she is not wearing her glasses as she usually does; do the stars look bigger or smaller? Once you heard her tell you that they looked bigger, brighter, and more beautiful than when she was wearing her glasses. Perhaps the world is more understandable through the lenses of the ambiguous more so than the clear. You watched as her elbows rested upon the windowsill, her mouth partly open, her eyes shining as you saw a thin film of fatigue stretch itself upon her face. Somewhere a grown, old woman weeps. A dog barks and then whimpers slightly. Someone slams a screen door shut with too much force. None of these sounds change her unwavering staring contest with the stars, nor do they alter the breathless smile filled with wonderment and naivety. The delicate wind picks up and slides its fingers through her hair effortlessly. For a moment, you are speechless. How could she look so beautiful just standing there? Even though she was appreciating the beauty of the night sky, you wouldn’t trade the sight of her standing like the goddess she is with all the night skies in the world. As, of course, you would know that there will be countless night skies, but only one of her. You move to take a step forward, but think better of it. You shall never see her like again, and better to revel in than disturb what could have been here.

She is going to die with a blue pen in her hand and an unfinished sentence–


~ Serendipitous

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