I’m feeling quiet in my head again over the last few days. I’ve wanted to speak, but have had nothing I have not already spoken of on numerous occasions. One thing in particular is the supposable completion of friendship by my former comrade, XXXXX. A good friend indeed, and a pleasure to have known him, I am thankful for all he gave to me, and all he taught me about the condition of man. It would appear to be this time at which friendships come to the cross roads in life, where the noticeable differences between the two of those involved come to a point where they can be excluded from thought no longer. We’re not compatible anymore. It sounds so cold. Like a dismembered algorithm. A shifted paradigm. The computations of our understanding of each other have fused into the people we were. We’re dead to each other. As we would at the wake, we’ll smile and wave goodbye, tell stories of when we were kings, and finish with the briefest of tears, one for the man I lost, one for the world in which we existed.

How many of them are there locked away in the times I’ve forgotten, and chosen to forget? Too many to look for. It’s a beauty to behold the memories of all you were. The people you became, those that became because of you and you alone. Dead rooms, unfinished promises, the quests of a thousand nights long lost to the dark they were once born from. If it were to me to count the pain suffered from looks to others and from them back with the venom, and hollow resonating chests they sound upon losing ones heart, I’d be a man lost in the storm. A ghost walking the roads alone. The seconds promise there’ll always be more, and in the strictest sense, there will. Just not for us. We are done now, ploughed to the side by the figure in the mirrored cloak.  His arms outstretched the scent of a thousand mornings awoken to the potential of all the world’s riches. Each day would hold all we could leaden it with, never thinking for the slightest that we would run out of room. There would always be more, and we’d never lose the chance to want it. How did it come this far? The things I’ve seen mean nothing to anyone, save for those who would sit and listen to the sunsets painted just for me and mine. Those who would ask of the freezing nights spent amongst the warmest of company. The moments tortured in others wished a million miles away. They’ll never matter again.

The memories best shared, are those done alone.