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Description
the older i get the less i care about coming off kitschy

--

This won't last, they said to themselves -- at one point or another -- while the tide rolled in and pulled back, and rolled in again with no memory of breaking before. Daylight was golden now, thick as syrup and endlessly sweet, giving way to nights that did not oppress. They left tracks in the sand and did not worry who saw them. Still they asked, how could this last?

There was Noah, whose heart still stood on the precipice of breaking, who staved off misfortune by saying its name. And Varga, whose distrust had calcified like a shell, growing into the shape of fear but which was hollow now, full of nautilus chambers echoing old grief. And Kian, who knew what it meant to last better than anyone, who did not count the days but only closed his eyes in the sun, and turned his head slowly when called.

Still, it is unfair to paint only their uncertainty. The reader is not the character, and should we feel yearning at the end then the sorrow is ours alone. Goodbye, we say; what comes after the epilogue is not for us. Suffering is universal, but happiness plays out behind closed doors, meaningless to strangers in its privacy and repetition. We must take solace that those whom we loved in their plight are now at peace, now wanting for nothing, backlit by the warmth of a day either rising or setting-- though we will never know which.

(7 apr. 2012 edit)

Description
the older i get the less i care about coming off kitschy

--

This won't last, they said to themselves -- at one point or another -- while the tide rolled in and pulled back, and rolled in again with no memory of breaking before. Daylight was golden now, thick as syrup and endlessly sweet, giving way to nights that did not oppress. They left tracks in the sand and did not worry who saw them. Still they asked, how could this last?

There was Noah, whose heart still stood on the precipice of breaking, who staved off misfortune by saying its name. And Varga, whose distrust had calcified like a shell, growing into the shape of fear but which was hollow now, full of nautilus chambers echoing old grief. And Kian, who knew what it meant to last better than anyone, who did not count the days but only closed his eyes in the sun, and turned his head slowly when called.

Still, it is unfair to paint only their uncertainty. The reader is not the character, and should we feel yearning at the end then the sorrow is ours alone. Goodbye, we say; what comes after the epilogue is not for us. Suffering is universal, but happiness plays out behind closed doors, meaningless to strangers in its privacy and repetition. We must take solace that those whom we loved in their plight are now at peace, now wanting for nothing, backlit by the warmth of a day either rising or setting-- though we will never know which.

(7 apr. 2012 edit)