We're the only ones left from those withered days. The last two leaves still clinging to the branch waiting to fall. Waiting for the wind to severe us into the sky.
Tan Twan Eng
The tree of life is already doomed from the moment it is planted.
death
death time
Paraphrasing Yeats: It was as the Irish poet had written, a waste of breath, the years that had gone past, the years to come. There was only the present moment to live and die in. [ref. An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.. The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death. W.B. Yeats
death living present
Die while I can still remember who I am, who I used to be.
Memory is like patches of sunlight in an overcast valley, shifting with the movement of the clouds. Now and then the light will fall on a particular point in time, illuminating it for a moment before the wind seals up the gap, and the world is in shadows again.
life perception time memory perspective loneliness
The palest ink will endure beyond the memories of man
writing memories
It is getting dark. In the low mists over the hills, an orange glow broods, as if the trees are on fire. Bats are flooding out from the hundreds of caves that perforate these mountainsides. I watch them plunge into the mists without any hesitation, trusting in the echoes and silences in which they fly. Are all of us the same, I wonder, navigating our lives by interpreting the silences between words spoken, analyzing the returning echoes of our memory in order to chart the terrain, in order to make sense of the world around us?
memory forgetting
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