At 8, I remember writing about haunted houses that never came to life, of monsters under my bed which stayed there forever, of dandelions which eventually failed to bloom and of secrets that spoke more of others than they ever did of me.
At 8, I still remember you. And I remember how innocence shone from our hearts. Other than that, I don’t remember much about when I was eight, maybe because there is nothing more to remember.
At 18, it has already been a decade. A decade of confusion when the questions have kept piling up and the answers just refuse to show. Everything changes when you grow up. The hardest part is you yourself also do.
At 18, I still write. I write of hope which radiates from a lack of fear, of infinities that have come and gone, of Time that takes us all with it and of you. And most of all, I write of a love.
I write of a love that almost was, a love that will never quite be. A love that has travelled through Time but has failed to bring two souls along with it.
<< sayan >>