Memory, the essence of existence

No matter how far we have come, we always remember the first time. The only time at the time. The reason of being there and nowhere else.

“Bring me happiness,” she says. “Bring me the glory of days gone by, the love we shared and the friends we had. Where have all those days gone? Are they forever no more, but to lay in our memories?”

People, places and objects perish. Yet memories can’t die. They persist in the fabric of the universe, running through interstellar space, not minding time. They live on as we die. They remain, remembering us in turn.

“Memory might be all that’s left, but that’s alright,” he said, looking up at the night’s sky. “Perhaps the stars will remember us. Perhaps.”

• writing