left hand side border Memories in the Mist
© Gemma L. Holliday
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I no longer know who I am. My identity has long since vanished on the winds of time. I have memories, yet I am no longer sure if they are truly mine, I have no idea if I truly exist any longer. I remember once I was great, a king amongst men, almost a divine being. I was worshiped for my greatness in battle, my knowledge, and my wisdom, yet now I am nothing. My spirit wanders the planes of existence, lost and alone, called every so often by the ties that bind me to what was once my mortal vessel. I am moved by the transient nature of life, it is given and then, taken. Sometimes when we least expect it. I do not remember the manner of my death, it was too long ago, but I was a warrior, so it cannot have been a peaceful death. A warrior's death is supposed to be great, to mean something, but in the cold mist that surrounds my memory I am no longer sure. Does anyone remember what it was I died for; is there anyone who cares anymore? I suspect not, for there are no songs to remember me by, no bards tell of my greatness. I am utterly alone, save for the occasional wandering animal. It is an amazing thing, for as I lived off the bounty of nature when I lived, now in death it is my turn to feed her, although there is little life left in my powdered bones now, for where my body rests is just cold, hard metal, precious only to those with life. What care have I for what riches I possessed in life, save to remind me that once I was great. Brief flashes of memory catch me as I dance with the gently moving sprites of mist, moved to cavort by the softly sung melody of the wind. I remember old desires, old dreams. I remember love and pain, but the memories are fleeting, much like life itself. I am alone and I no longer remember. I have no name. There is nothing save the mist slowly dancing with the tatters of my soul.


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