Words jumped up and down the pages of my journal as I flipped them one last time. I fingered the corners, the dust habituating in between fluttered in the air and the many memories of time spent scribbling verses here and there exploded with bittersweet nostalgia.
My memories of you are the parasites that I've buried in this notebook and for the many months that passed, these have stayed in these leaves, caged in metaphors and cerebral poops that have unfortunately, ultimately poisoned me. Writing about you was therapeutic, but in the long run, the words that I have expressed are the very same words that haunt me in my dreaming.
So I fingered the pages, and triggered by the sense of renewal, tore them one by one and burned them in the middle of a clearing somewhere back. The embers glowed in anticipation as they fiddled and licked the ink of my paper thoughts, reducing them to nothingness-ashes of the what could-have-been's.
And as the afternoon sun danced it's tendrils on my face, I watched the wind blow the ash-turned memories into the sunset.Oblivion is such a fanatical concept. But we can always assume that it is achievable.