into tiny pieces of nothingness reflecting back what could have been, should have been, would have been, but is possible no more.
To scatter to the wind in so many fragments of a lifetime of memories that can’t be captured in the hand, but only in the heart and mind, only for the essence to slip away with time, as all memories eventually do.
To splatter on the hard walls of existence. To shatter and scatter anew in smaller and smaller pieces until unrecognizable even to the astute observer.
To never again exist as once known and never be remembered as once was.
Tis the life of the lonely.
Tis the life of the many.