They were young and beautiful and gifted. Full of ideas. Full of life. They were the next big thing, the next great voice, the one true genius, each and every one. Vibrant. Strong. Now lined up in tombs….strike that….rooms…to die… to dry, like fruit, sapped of juice dehydrating from the inside without a thought of where they are, were, or had been.
“I was once…” he would say, not knowing where to go with the half-thought. And correct he was, wisdom within the perfect simplicity of failed neurons. He was once. He used to fight it, struggling with his memory…with his lost wisdom, his prizes, his jewels, his daughters and sons, husbands and wives, children, and grand….friends, cousins, foes, messy affairs. Triumphs. Woes. Forgotten. Gone to the wishes and promises long unfulfilled, and guilt’s shame, finally forgiven.
We do not change the world. We are the refuse.
