The Limit

What kind of man cannot let his eyes linger on shadows?

What kind of man feels the etchings of timeless traces on his mind but not his flesh?

What sort of path is this for a man to choose?

I looked into the face of death, and I said “no.”

I’m close now. Closer than I’ve ever been before. The seconds mean something now and the minutes matter to me. This timeless drifting voyage is reaching the destination we set out for, so many lifetimes ago now. I can taste it, capture it on my tongue whilst my skin comes alive with a sensation that had been forgotten in me. Anticipation, the memory of the sense comes from a former life, another mind. It is not bred from my body but from the soul of another, yet it courses through my veins now, striking my synapses with a revelry that reminds me of her.

She is not just a memory but she is not whole. Not yet caught by death but waiting.

We were one together. One being. Flowed together like water till I could not tell her from me. We lived together for timeless centuries, feeling that we stood on the shores of a new world. A golden age. Months past like hours, years like days. Till we could no longer feel the time on our skin. Our sore bones letting their aches be absorbed into the ether, till there was nothing within us but boundless opportunity. Contemplation replaced reasonable fear.

Are these the workings of one mind, or two? Can the mind divide itself? Or does it confine itself to dark recesses of lost remembrance? Shut up in a tomb which it cannot open. Does it yearn, does it seek to freely roam the boundless memories? Or does it seek shelter from fear, seeking safety in darkness, shying away from light? Why should I be afraid to die? I belong to you.

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