Time marches forth, for it has no meaning. It simply persists. The sun will always set due west, the tides will forever churn and the seasons change. These machinations are eternally set in stone. No force could possibly intend to rival the majesty of natural influence. That’s what’s most painful.
Despite blind optimism, nothing will ever change.
Here I remain within a realm of nothingness. Eternity has already claimed me, made an example of my being. There is nothing left for me but dried blood and bones, a never-ending cycle of days past.
I can’t seem to recall when I left this world. Perhaps it was in the late seventies, the early nineties, maybe even a time that belittled the conception of these years in its own right. I remain here, despite not having a clue where here truly is. I’ve watched time change, people change, and the very Earth itself change. It has reformed, only to come undone time and time again.
I’m cursed to travel a realm on the precipice of the living and dead, to see existence carry forth into oblivion. I’ve witnessed brutal war, rigorous famine, and societies come and go. I have watched those I love perish long after my own death. They lived fulfilling lives. I couldn’t be more proud of who they became, the legacies they left upon a fickle planet among the cosmos.
The dreaded reality of why I remain looms over me: The crushing weight of knowing I could’ve been more, done more, lived more.
There is an eternal regret that persists.
I had dreams, and though I can’t remember them, I can feel them. They’ve always been a part of me. There is nowhere I can turn where the past does not linger. I see my aspirations in the calluses of my ghostly palms and the yearning whisper of what I can’t recall to be my voice. I pass mirrors only to find nothing staring back at me. I only exist to myself, thrust into oblivion.
I roam this plain in search of what motivated me. Tenants have come and gone, spirits and specters who died too soon forced to wander as an afterthought of unfinished business. Our realms–the living and the dead–overlap. We are forced to observe the world from a prison we can’t escape soon enough.
Those who have been trapped alongside me make their way out sooner or later. Their living families unknowingly take their hands, their unending remembrance and affection guiding them along a path I’ll never follow. Their business will no longer remain unfinished, they will know who they were meant to be, their legacy etched upon granite.
It’s an opportunity for a second chance. I’m still chasing mine.
Who was I?
I’ve traveled the world in search of that very answer. There isn’t a corner of this globe where my apparition hasn’t strayed. From the Appalachians to the Great Barrier, everything beyond and in between. A million lifetimes flutter ahead of me. My ghost has waltzed across a grand stage, dancing to a routine I’ve witnessed a million times. I’ve watched as a canvas once bare holds a lifetime in the brush strokes decorating its surface. The ink fresh upon a page envelops me and coddles me as though I was reborn.
Yet it’s the little things I enjoy the most, the wonders of an ever-changing world shying in immeasurable comparison.
A butterfly lands on a flower beside me. It’s a spring morning, grass damp following incessant evening showers. Its wings flap delicately, I pull myself closer to gaze upon its beauty. A cat purrs somewhere nearby, lounging in the warmth of an emerging sun. Children laugh and trees sway alongside a subtle breeze. It smells of lavender and honeysuckle. At this moment, everything I’ve ever yearned for blossoms into fruition.
Simplicity welcomes me with open arms. I remain here for a while.
I cross a mirror and for the first time, I begin to recognize pieces of myself. My eyes are the color of the tide at dusk, my hair catching flames in its strands. There are freckles dotting my face that remind me of constellations I’ve followed to infinity. My teeth are offset and jagged, I like them that way.
I return to wandering, collecting fresh experiences that will surpass my time here. Piece by piece I am sculpted anew, my withered mind a collage of existence.
My life was one I loved, lived as though I would never see tomorrow. I’ve wandered lost not because I lost sight of myself, but because there was so much more I yearned to experience. For centuries I’ve regarded this existence as a curse, imprisoning me, forcing me to watch others come to their conclusion in this realm.
But that was never the point of this place, not for me, at least.
It never mattered how much money I made or the impact I had upon others. For years I focused on finding a passion, something to define me. In the grand scheme of things, such trivialities were nothing more than an afterthought. My passion was unobtainable simply because it persisted unbound by the shackles of definition.
I yearn for substance, for existence.
In a single lifetime, I’ve been blessed with the gift of a million. This place has not been my prison, but my every dream.
I realize I’ve always been where I’m meant to be.
Bryanna Bernice is a writer and aspiring author born and raised in the United States. From a young age she found a love of literature and story-telling, her dream to turn a lifelong passion into a career.
Featured image by Gaston Roulstone on Unsplash.
