There is a memory within me.
I am sure that this memory sleeps within us all, suspended in a corner of the mind, perpetually buried until the time comes when it must be remembered.
Perhaps the term 'memory' is not the best description. It is not just a memory; it is an urgent feeling, an arcane knowledge, and an instinctive power.
There are even times when, for just the fleetest of moments…that I can even smell those beautiful, palely soft flowers. But like the flickering flame that lights a campfire or a mortal life, the thought is gone in an instance. It is just as a passing moment of my life is to a human's birth and death to the undying universe.
Thinking about the flowers of the moon tempts my acute nose to try and envision the fragrance. In the meanwhile, my mostly sleepy consciousness is helpfully remindful of the fact that because I have never actually been in their presence, I could not possibly know what they look or feel like, let alone their undoubtedly wonderful scent.
Yet that stirring memory seems so real, so fresh and clear. This memory…this knowledge…I know of it, and that is all that is mortally possible of me. And at the same time, a haze of smoke clouds my inner eye from seeing it clearly, the gray billows rising from an awesome light.
Off in a very far distance – a distance measured much more in animal instinct, internal feeling, than whatever strange measurements humans like to use – directs me from the lazy spot beside the very real flame of memory-clouding to a nimble leap and run up the russet-tinged cliff-face.
The usual dusty odors of the desert are marred by a sharp wind of death.
My head turns skyward, neck stretching towards the starry beyond. I do not open my maw to howl in despair, for I feel no sorrow. This death is interesting, and I must taste the wind in order to extract what information I may of it.
The moments pass, the wind dances by.
There were two deaths.
Above, two stars race across the night.