What was I supposed to do? Pick up where I left off? Play catch up? No, it's all too much to carry.
It's like a long distance relationship that's hanging on to that frozen moment. Holding hands from far away is fruitless attempt. At a certain point, we all wither and die in each other's minds, only to live on as ghosts of our former selves. And as we meet again, we stare, two ghosts in the night, fumbling about with the hope that our new beings haven't alienated what we once were. The accelerated gravity of displaced time may become too much to bear. There is no recipe, no book, or no others that can bring back the dead. And, therefore, sometimes the past is just best left where it will always reside. Otherwise the cost is too high for the future.
Revisionist history is attainable, but will not be accepted by the witnesses, leaving us at the crossroads. However, we're presented with a false choice--one can not walk back. Turn around, the road is disappearing until black. Just like the great-great-great-greats before us whose very names we've forgotten. Whittled down to an abstract reality that we are bound by anything more than dust.
I respect the past for it has the constituents of the present. But out of this reverence, I stop short of commitment. For death shows no mercy and ghosts have no future. They're all left behind.
So here we are. We shall accept the increasingly heavy weight and fading road, and we'll soldier on.
