Final ThoughtsMy trinkets and pictures are scattered around my shelves, at every turn photographs appear like small wormholes to the past, trinkets lie gathering dust like forgotten relics.
They are not dear, for they are weak imitations of the emotion felt in those times. Terrified of losing those sweet moments I attempted to preserve them in tangible things. Of these I have many, and confident of their immortality I had allowed the real to slip away from thought. My life is a swirling mass of memory; I lie here and remember little , save the few orbs of the sweetest remembrance like pearls glistening in a pile of decayed rubbish.
Eighty years of life wasted away in the cell I called life, even the gems of my thoughts are darkened, and it is not because death's shadow is finally looming great over me. They are flawed, incomplete, small faceless blobs that send only pleasant warmth rippling through my heart. I am grasping for sharper images, reaching in the dark for an ethereal thought that only exh