I reluctantly abandon traditions forged of years. I watch them shrivel under the weight of obsolescence. Affection for memories keeps me from discarding my idiosyncratic habit. I place my tokens of subjective meaning in my Pandora's box. I lock them in with the hope that remains, and seal the box with maroon wax and black blood.
I stare at empty pockets of the world and see superimposed illusions of Things That Happened; the way the memory of a ghost looks when portrayed in a film. I don't need to scrub the visions out of my lens. That's the recourse of gentler persons. I preserve the recalls with the acknowledgement of sad smiles. I just don't know where the line between faithful and pragmatic draws taut.
12:09 p.m. - 2014-08-08
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