I looked across at what was once my land and my people. Yet no longer were they my comrades, nor amigos, nor banana salesmen from far away nations. It was me and my blade of grass. The grass that was long ago, fresh from the earth at the time. The blade of grass in which my dearest beloved person had given to me. And no longer were they my 'dearest-beloved'.
I had always lived in Europe's most gifted, yet old, seemingly photo-shopped world. But this was the eighteenth century I am referring to.
I used to adore that century. But whenever my mind turns toward that time, I think of the future and realize I am in despair, as much as I don't want it. I used to wonder if the mortuaries will soon wish to kill me if they see me around so often.
Yet I knew that mortuaries would fail to bury me, poison fruits would not kill me, and the Mediterranean could not drown me. I was, however, not proud of this. Not when one is so affected by the past, but can't even appear that way.
This is not as much a story of what you gain from dedication, as it is what you lose.