Epilogue

I do not know why up to this day I still bother to write about you.

I just get amused by these small bouts of pettiness that always comes with the memory of your name.

I see them as signs, not of still caring, nor even being engrossed in what I write, but as traces of the once deeply-ingrained feelings of betrayal, the maddening anger I felt when you left me hanging in despair.

Needless to say, none of it bothers me now; or rather, I treat everything differently.

No longer am I wishing for the closure you never gave.

No longer do I wish you to suffer as I had, even when I still wish you'll not prosper.

No longer do I wonder what has gone wrong, nor do I write about our tale to make sense of it.

I am now just simply curious, curious about these tiny strands, containing you, that you left in my domain.

Curious about what I could do with them now that they lost their preciousness.

I have tried to burn them all. And there they lay burnt. But these memories live on, staying true to their immaterial nature.

They do not disintegrate just because I want them to, so I decided to make use of them as best as I can.

They are all around me, these traces of you. They are in the subtleties of my daily life, in the small details that I occasionally notice. However, they are most alive in the realm of music, in the songs we used to play.