Few -or many- touches, kisses, hugs, tears, hurts on your body, in your heart, inside your soul. Could some of them be buried? At least, could a few of them be erased? And most of all; could all of them be forgotten?
Her name was innocence. It was. His name was indiference. It was. In the beginning. For the first time in all times, the array blueness of the innocent water couldn't be stifled by the feverish indifferent fire. It was not only the water who played the game at first hand; but the fire premiered, too, probably for the last time. The water wanted to be deformed so much, so that any other elements would never be capable of understanding the reason for that intense desire. The fire was, for sure, could have the magic to deform such an opposite blessing of the earth, so easily, so desperately, on the other hand, so possibly.
Things turn upside down, always, in life. Some stories don't have an end, as they don't have a clear beginning. Playing in the middle, going to and fro, assuming the welcomes and the goodbyes without being able to mesure the reality of them both. Forgetting. There isn't a sharper word than this, not a bitter ability than letting all go. The question is: does stopping to remember mean forgetting? When seeing, touching, talking to the other half is gone, how do we know if they have really lost their muse? Most of all, when you're still alone.
Some people will never lose their muses. The inspiration for another love will still come from the gone/existing muses.
In the hall of some loves; the walls might have pictures of happy moments of sincere smiles; but the sorrow will always outweigh.
So, the thing is:
"In a few years, when I have forgotten you, and other adventures like this one will happen to me from sheer force of habit, I will remember you as the symbol of love's forgetfulness. I will think of this story as the horror of forgetting. "
And if I ever meet the symbol of love's forgetfulness; I hope it won't be anyone else than you, only you.
