My trinkets and pictures are scattered around my shelves, at every turn photographs appear like small wormholes to the past, trinkets lie gathering dust like forgotten relics.
They are not dear, for they are weak imitations of the emotion felt in those times. Terrified of losing those sweet moments I attempted to preserve them in tangible things. Of these I have many, and confident of their immortality I had allowed the real to slip away from thought. My life is a swirling mass of memory; I lie here and remember little , save the few orbs of the sweetest remembrance like pearls glistening in a pile of decayed rubbish.
Eighty years of life wasted away in the cell I called life, even the gems of my thoughts are darkened, and it is not because death's shadow is finally looming great over me. They are flawed, incomplete, small faceless blobs that send only pleasant warmth rippling through my heart. I am grasping for sharper images, reaching in the dark for an ethereal thought that only exhibits itself in the visceral tingles in my wracked body.
Death is near, but his ebony cloak is warm. He is living and I am dead, for only his presence awakens me from what had been my eternal slumber.
Death is kind, the slowing of my heart allows me to pick more carefully through my still turning memories, shadows walk through the bright thoughts that used to only warm, I feel my fingers touching what I had touched, and it is only now that I can see the orange speckles in the sand as if the sun had shed parts of itself in the sea. The lapping azure waves rimmed with froth as delicate as the wedding veil, death's cloak as soft and dark as the night sea in which I had laid the ashes of the loved dead, the white power dispersing in streaks as if ribbons of a galaxy floated on the waters.
Death is patient, but his patience has an end. The windows through which I have seen sudden but quiet epiphany are gently closed. I wait for the final darkness to fall, knowing that I too will become a galaxy floating on the sea.