Amaranth

I stood in the middle of my room today, and mused about my life, as man is wont to do at times.

I thought back on the "me" in the past, and then turned to the "me" in the present. And I was amazed. Amazed at the changes that have occurred, and scared, for the changes that I know will occur. Yet though my form, my spiritual, mental, form, my soul is fluid in the midst of Time's domain, I find myself happy for this. In the center of entropy, I find myself happier in each incarnation, a never-ending stream of emotion and consciousness. That is life, that is the antithesis of stagnation and nothingness, to experience, to feel - to be human.

I close my eyes, and I begin to run my fingers down my memories.

They brush light wood of tables I have slept on, smashed in anger, drawn upon in boredom. They are rough with glue stains from the clumsy art of making miniatures that I pursue, they are pitted with knife holes from letter-openers stuck standing in rage.

My fingers brush the miniatures, and a voice rings out in my head. "Some things in my life, I have made by my own hand." I feel each one, each a vivid memory within my mind, of hours spent underneath a dim light.

My fingers brush past my photos, my pewter statue, its rough ridges bringing a bygone loved one to my mind. "Some are gifts given." I still love each that have gifted me, with the material, and the immaterial, knowingly and unknowingly.

My fingers reach my magazines, my paraphernalia. "Some are items bought." I remember saving up for each of these, to buy, to cherish and eventually, to forget.

My fingers touch the letterbox, chock full of letters I have written to a certain love. Mixed within are stories I have weaved, tales I have created, countless notebooks used, finished, filled with unwritten words. "Some come from the heart." Each was written with a quill dripping by my souls' blood, and on them lie the stains of tears, ring the echoes of laughter. My muse would have graced me with a smile, were she not so fickle, were she here right now instead of persisting with midnight visits.

My fingers touch my books. I remember each of them. Time spent, time wasted. Not a thing studied. Everything learnt. I have laughed, cried, sang, raged, slept on, woke up to, loved, hated, feared, embraced within these stories. I have climbed to the stars, dined with devils and danced with Gods. I have fought great evil, murdered great good, tripped the light fantastic, waxed lyrical beneath the light of a dawning star. "Some come into the heart."

"And all of them, all these things which are not things, but instead, are memories. They are all - beautiful."

"And there are more to come."