The death of beauty (the pain of time)

To live is to die, to see the young grow, the old die.

To live is to realise that we exist, and then to realise that we're all destined to the same fate. Yet, to live is to see, to hear, to perceive the infinite beauties that surround us.

A hundred years may pass, but I will have heard this beautiful melody. And if I don't remember it, at least I know that I can hear it now. To live is to be doomed to the present, to an unstoppable river called time. The breeze is fresh sometimes, but the waterfall awaits and our little boats are not strong enough to survive it.

_{Pretty music on Youtube. Click play, it's worth it.}

But the melody sings and dances. The beauty, so sweet, fills us with the love that only existence can bring. Short or long, our lives are always now.

The winds that brought us joy may stop coming today.

Stop, like the last impact from the wrecking ball before the structure collapses. The butterfly that flew will have flown. The echo will recede, give way to silence.

But will my love ever stop? The love I felt, now I forgot, and new love has found a path into my heart. But the old love will always live in the past. Time keeps a little hut and it resides there, in a valley or a prairie, covered by blue skies, shaken by the spring wind, swayed by the melody of a thousand songbirds and crickets and rain frogs.

And the new love lives in a mansion with infinite rooms to explore. It's surely happy in its brain-home, sharing room with unborn stories, poems and ideas.

Many have died, but they also lived.

In the present lives the past and the future; unseen, maybe, but just as real. A young dancer in 1537 had, once in his life, a happy dance. A lover found requited love. A little girl smiled so hard she felt her cheeks in pain, and yet kept smiling, feeling the strong happiness fill her body like a balloon.

Death? I will certainly die. But I will have lived this moment. I will forget it, but that will not have changed its presence. It will not stop it from existing. It will fly forever, unknown to others for an eternity, yet not one bit less real.

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