The story will fade away. The stains will go away. They will forget it all. But will I?
If things were to happen all of a sudden, unannounced yet perfect in its course of destruction, shattering the most secret refuge I run to, and then disappearing into a thick air of umpteen other stories, with no reasons disclosed, no lesson learnt, no signs of rolling the curtains up again, why the deuce have I been left with the heaviness so unbearable but so empty when it comes to an evident existence?
It’s all about the equilibrium of life, eh? If there were no controversial appendages of the equation that keeps tailing the truth, I’d happily buy your point. All I see is random bubbles bursting randomly in random lives. And ruthless attacks of unjustified memories waiting to provoke darkest of thoughts, while the invisibility of past keeps thickening its wall and fooling you around.
But as it is, the story will fade away. The stains will go away. They will forget it all. But will I?