Solitude proves itself as the only form of true peace. The inevitability of death outlined by the wind, arriving as strongly as it departs, shows us an able but unjust life.
In my dreams and the antiquity of nostalgia, I dream of my childhood, when the company of others made me feel secure. Just as I had once thought that man's eternal battle was against the universe, I now see that it is against himself. Man cannot describe his life in the battles won, but the battles lost. It is human nature to verbalize our victories, to shut out the desperate haunting of our losses.
However, loud voices are carried by stronger men, who, inevitably also pass onto the next world without it. It is this inescapable destiny that has assured me that my vulnerabilities are completely redundant. Those who go quietly, still go, just as those who scream and bellow at the unjustness, those who suffer at the hands of the gods and those who believe in the virtue of solitude still go. Memory is not concrete, which is an incredible thing to remember. In the heat of the dire summer, when the dryness of the air seems overwhelming, when the trees lose their leaves, not through natural process, but through a sickly thirst, it is then that we see the world at its natural pace. Solemn and sober, we wander the streets of our towns, wondering upon the stupidity of rushing, and we recognize the importance of knowing that that which forces us to lose our pace is wonderful.
A burden of memory has fixed itself in my life. It is certain. Regardless of the poisoness ales and long rivers of tears, the dense and heavy heart that remains is tormenting. The false grins hide the long soul within, allowing me to function without the momentous task of swallowing my pride, of begging for another chance, which if it were granted, would only serve to move my torment to another time, and the entire proven process would eventuate once more.
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