Like dust particles, I thought. Some part of you must be in the air, floating around in the ray of sunlight above my desk. Like sand particles in the ocean, all the way down South, and across continents to faraway lands.
In this sense, leaving a mark doesn't seem so hard. Impossible not to, in fact. The transfer of energy, and all that which they speak of and I nod my head in partial comprehension.
Perhaps the fragments of these pages will one day find themselves, unbeknown to the owner, part of a new handbook, filled with notes on the world and heartbreak and love and possessions.
I sit here warming my hands up as I spill ink in a freestyle fashion. Some might call it art - but I do not know the meaning of the word. Surely art has some value, monetary or otherwise. I saw they sold a coloured block on canvas for a couple million the other day. Must be nice, being an artist.
We romanticize the idea of forever like it is a quantifiable element. An absolute of which we are absolutely certain. I will love you forever, until the end of time. Perhaps, like signing a contract or software agreement to which we've barely skimmed the introduction. Someone sat and wrote those words too.
I wonder where their particles will end up.