your promise
Years from now, you will remember the promise you made today.
You will remember standing at the edge of the cliff, looking out over the town that looks pristine from a distance, although you are intimately acquainted with the mix of soot and sand that covered every surface. You will remember the sunset, and the words you muttered under your breath. Now, you see the sunset, just off center from the road that cuts right through the center of the town, behind the general store. But you won’t remember that. In your mind, the sun will be centered on the road you left behind.
It will be a beautiful, nearly poetic memory, a rarity in this world. You will remember that this was a town where coincidence rarely stumbled into poetry. Still, you will grow to love the image created by your imagination, and the reality you sacrificed will eventually cease lurking in your mind. You will remember standing on this precipice, telling yourself what you know you need to hear, but the memory will be tinted, tainted by a calming sunset.
Still, no matter what you allow yourself to forget, you’ll remember why you made this promise, even as the when and where are corrupted by time. You won’t ever forget lying on the sandy, sooty, floor of your mother’s house, a spur of bone from your snapped femur nauseatingly visible. More than the pain, or the thoughts that were racing through your mind, you’ll remember the feel of the grit of sand under your palms, and the faint taste of soot that had only just started to bury the town forcing its way down your throat.
Still, you won’t always be remembering it, if that’s any sort of reassurance.
You will be able to choose to turn your back on the ash raining down on the town, as you walk away.
You won’t learn to run again, but you will see the first day of summer from the other side of the mountains.
You will slowly rediscover how to look at other people’s eyes.
And you will remember your promise to yourself, that you made, not on the cliff, but a few hours earlier, on that sand and soot stained floor, that you wouldn’t return. And outside of your memories, you won’t.
You will remember standing at the edge of the cliff, looking out over the town that looks pristine from a distance, although you are intimately acquainted with the mix of soot and sand that covered every surface. You will remember the sunset, and the words you muttered under your breath. Now, you see the sunset, just off center from the road that cuts right through the center of the town, behind the general store. But you won’t remember that. In your mind, the sun will be centered on the road you left behind.
It will be a beautiful, nearly poetic memory, a rarity in this world. You will remember that this was a town where coincidence rarely stumbled into poetry. Still, you will grow to love the image created by your imagination, and the reality you sacrificed will eventually cease lurking in your mind. You will remember standing on this precipice, telling yourself what you know you need to hear, but the memory will be tinted, tainted by a calming sunset.
Still, no matter what you allow yourself to forget, you’ll remember why you made this promise, even as the when and where are corrupted by time. You won’t ever forget lying on the sandy, sooty, floor of your mother’s house, a spur of bone from your snapped femur nauseatingly visible. More than the pain, or the thoughts that were racing through your mind, you’ll remember the feel of the grit of sand under your palms, and the faint taste of soot that had only just started to bury the town forcing its way down your throat.
Still, you won’t always be remembering it, if that’s any sort of reassurance.
You will be able to choose to turn your back on the ash raining down on the town, as you walk away.
You won’t learn to run again, but you will see the first day of summer from the other side of the mountains.
You will slowly rediscover how to look at other people’s eyes.
And you will remember your promise to yourself, that you made, not on the cliff, but a few hours earlier, on that sand and soot stained floor, that you wouldn’t return. And outside of your memories, you won’t.
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