I could be a mere whisper in the summer breeze, another speck of dust atop a lonely honey jar, that occasional creak between well-polished floorboards.
At times it feels like I have written myself out from my history, so much so that I am beginning to feel as though I have never existed. Flip through the pages of the high school yearbook, and find only a cutout of a lost grimace. Run past the articles of a yellowed newspaper, and read only the strikethrough text at each and every nook. Play an audio recording of a conversation that never was, and hear only a muted silence that can never expire.
And yet, as faceless as we can be, there may still be a precious secret open to others to see. Like a carefully-wrapped gift quickly becoming undone and unravelled to gaping awe and resounding sighs, we are left with one fewer shiny piece of ourselves to hold on to.
The past is swiftly catching up with me, and I wonder if it would simply leapfrog over me and make me disappear completely.