The Mirrorless Moon

Forget Me

When I was younger, I was afraid of being forgotten. The idea of “me” being lost to the sands of time kept me up at night. Maybe I’d write the next great American novel. Perhaps I’d be someone important. Or a martyr, even.

Now I find little more beautiful than the thought of my ashes carried by the wind. Deposited here and there. Any memorials paved over and memories faded.

The only remains of this sack of skin and bones being ripples and echoes of actions and choices made—nothing fixed to hold. Let the weeds grow over anything I used to hold as important. May the fires burn any want of status.

We spend too much time believing there’s lack in our lives. How ridiculous! Life is right here.

Gassho,
Koushi