My first thoughts in writing a post in honour of the hijacked holiday: how cliché. Leaving this notion to suspended disbelief, and moving moreso towards progress—I look at what the day means to me now—what it once meant.
It once meant pins and needles—not being able to sleep, so drunk on the possibilities the day could yield—the indulgences given.
Now, I think to all the things which have passed by; what's departed since the last time this dreadful date rolled across my existence and calendars. Voices now silent—either through death or psychic dissolution—and memories glittering with vibrancy unable to be matched by the stories written down as the history I lived, mind projections leading into the tangents of endless maybes.
In memoriam, my mind—the prince of embellishment—says quietly and the dead memory of a the dead language I once read rears its head; Latin in the wake of tragedy—imminent or now past.
