LITERARY | The Earth

I’ve read somewhere that the earth is scattered with the ruins of empires who deemed themselves immortal—I, too, agree.

(the idea of death does not crawl, nor blow a single shift of breath to the crevices of our brain until tragedy imprints its marks on our skins.)

Have you noticed that those who perished—whose remains were scattered across the cracks of the earth were once loved so dearly—the flowers of spring, the warmth of June, the snows of winter; and whenever the insects will come crawl and feast on their essence, they will get a glimpse of the savory memory of the corpse they feasted upon, drinking the last remains of their existence before their body becomes one with the earth?

—Now, I'm fully convinced that I am immortal, and that I will never become one with the soils that I once walked on, nor the winds, nor the sea that I held so dear, unlike any romance. (for to become one with them is to be loved at so much depth that the gods refused to remove a part of you from them in another time, in another life)

However, a part of me still holds on to the idea of returning back to where I came from (i, too, want to experience death if it meant experiencing love). my spine—two, I was born with it, that is supposed to support me wholly contradict one another (my body, my heart, my mind, my soul); to stay immortal, forever young ... or to experience love, to soon perish and find the lifelong peace of assurance that I, too, am loveable.

And if that day ever comes forward, the euphoria of the thing I deemed so impossible, I wonder, if I would return to the very core of the earth; will I ever leave this place with prints of my soul in every corner like the old empires had? (they thought they were immortal and were loved by many … when the day came that no one had predicted it will be the last, they left reliquiae in every corner of the world, reminding the new bloods of their ancient glory) And that people who would crawl against the ruins of my own decay and consider it as beautiful as the remnants of the broken empires of the past? Or that when they find pieces of me scattered deep in the trenches of the ocean—would they ever think that these fragments once belonged to someone who was loved? Would they? or Would they disregard the melancholic idioms of it all?