[Deep within the dungeons, between cells and bars, between darkness and the faint light that manages to filter through the thick clouds up below, lies a small parchment. Written with small, almost diminute letters, in a caligraphy that is both somewhat absent as it is immersive when it meets the eye, the time it had lied there was probably the reason why the few eyes that manage to graze upon it must do so with perusal, for they had became almost indistinct from the withering paper. If one has patience, finally the message can be read.]
There used to be a time when I sang to the nothingness. There used to be a time when I danced for nobody. There used to be a time when I cried for myself. I do not remember them, no, and I lack the proof I'd gladly accept in order to confirm those apparently nonexistent times. But, there is a glimpse of evidence that I am not merely imagining any of it, that I am not merely trying to give sense to this now void existence of mine: I remember how I felt.
Yes, I do remember that. I doubt I'd ever forget such feeling. I may not recall when my throat ached from singing, when my mind blurred when I spun to the compass of a slow-paced serenade, nor how my cheeks grew damp trails after the passing of my tears. But, instead, I recall perfectly how I joyful I felt when my voice overcame the singing of the birds, I recall how passion filled every single mote of my body as I spun and jumped, and I recall how battered I felt after tasting the salted tears that escaped my eyes. I doubt I'll ever forget that.
Sometimes, when I look at this, my cell, I do want to forget them. I want to forget that I experienced something so beautiful, so intense and so... pure, yes, that is the word. If I forget, will I be able to finally forget about this pain? The pain of being imprisoned here, all alone, of hearing the writhes of all those other souls that had lost themselves to solitude when I am, as I believe, the only one who remains remotely sane. That pain, yes, that I what I wish to finally let go of my existence.
I doubt I will ever see the Sun again, as my cell and the ironic bared window that decorates it does not allow me, ever, to glance at it. I doubt I will ever escape, that I will dent this armor of mine in service, or in duty.
But I still hope. I am a hypocrite. I wish to forget and to let go of the grim thoughts I hold on to, for they are the only thing I remember, but I secretly wish to break free and finally remember again.
Isn't time supposed to make us forget?
Isn't time going to make me forget?