In the Midst of our Lives, We Die
Some think of us as ‘eternal’. We are not.

Why would we be? Because our years are measured in greater numbers than those of our mortal counterparts? Eternity by definition cannot be measured by years, or in numbers. We could combine all our years, months, weeks, days, hours and still not touch upon that which is eternal. Time is a different currency altogether; it cannot be compared.

Twice in my life, I have witnessed that which is eternal, and on both occasions the revelation occurred in an instant within an instant; a mere drop in the vast ocean of time and space. And yet, so transcendent were these revelations, so sublime, that the ages could never erode their meaning, and the world would never be the place that it was before them. They rose above joy, fear, love... They simply were, and always would be; irrevocable moments of purity and perfection.

My mortal death was the first. In the arms of my maker, as my mortal spirit fused with his immortal one, I was plunged into the chaos of a pure life force, and time lost all its significance. I watched the fabric of the world transform as though I was no longer a part of it, and in that instant I understood what consciousness truly was. Living in that moment was enough to make me eternal; I was no longer a slave to the linear passage of time.

The second transpired at the moment I imparted that spark of life unto another. It was something I had promised myself I would never do. Countless times, I refused her. And yet I loved her, and a love as deep as my love for her could inspire any manner of sin. In a hot blooded moment of need and callow hope, I succumbed to her desire. Again, I felt the world shift beneath my feet. Time stood still and she was everywhere; in my senses, in my blood, in my crimson streaked hallucinations of what might have been between us. I felt helpless, as though destiny, or some other force much greater than myself was unravelling, and no choice or judgment of mine could have the power to stop it.

If you could only understand the tenderness we shared when it was over, and there was peace again; if you could only see the way she looked at me, and clung to me, as I bathed her in the Ganges.

We promised each other everything; unity, solidarity, friendship, companionship, but the dreams faded as quickly as we gave them voice. I wanted to show her the light, I wanted her to be my light, but she was so swiftly drawn into the darkness of our existence that she was gone before I truly realised I was losing her. We all thirst for blood, but her thirst was insatiable, and infused with a lust for violence and horror that left me grief stricken for the sweet, compassionate soul that had been sacrificed because of my weakness. She was gone.

I remember packing my bag for London alone, and wanting to laugh at the sheer absurdity of hope, faith, love. Once again, I was destiny’s fool.

I still think of her every night. I relive that moment, the fusion of her soul and mine. Memories are transient and malleable; mirages of perception and illusion. But that was truth. I recall the fulfilment of it and savour its flawless beauty, knowing that we reached for eternity together and touched it, finding completion side by side.

I hope that wherever she is, she knows that I will always think of what we shared with awe and reverence, and that I will always love her.