A person can die between the pages of a notebook and still keep breathing. This death is mercy. The existence is fired up. Smokes do not carry the traces of burnt words. The last moments are breathed out in a hiss as fire slowly devours the ink. There must have been some evil in those pitch black letters for some things are written to be preserved. Maybe, what I was trying to preserve was wrong. Maybe I shaped its life wrongly. Or maybe, that life itself was a puzzle piece that fits for the things that define imperfectness. Perhaps that life would never return to my notebook but if it does, it would never be what it used to be. And that is good. Words are loyal to time not us.
Originally posted on Blogger on Dec 27, 2015