Memorial of a Loved One

The beauty of Life is…

It’s so fragile, yet we are infinite. An entire nebula of thoughts and ideas and emotion. Yet one minute, the shoreline of the world is at the tips of our fingers and toes and the other, we become part of the indescribable ether, the incalculable infinity, the incomprehensible Whole. We think Beauty is in the sky and clouds and trees and birds and mountains and skyscrapers and machines and mathematics and whatever genre of intellect you elect to be consumed in. But it’s not in that,

It is in us.

each of us.

You see, it is we who ingest the sights and sounds and smells and sensations, but it then is transformed into a grand experience. We comprehend it all and we comprehend the concept that we can’t possibly comprehend it all. We see red and are infuriated. Blue and we grow morose, melancholy, and mellow. We are regal violet. Emboldened yellow. Uncertainly gray. And it only means something to us individually.

Furthermore, we are defined by those experiences we share with one another, because somehow our oneness causes an omnipotent cohesion in which we require each interpretation, each consciousness in order to fully define the aspect that played a part in kneading and molding our being. In doing so, the singular Beauty that is each one of us compresses and nebulizes into the amorphous mass of what we realize as the proverbial December Rose. The Memory.

So I implore – remember fondly. Remember to relive and remember to redefine. More importantly, remember together. To forget is to disgrace and disintegrate that which could construct the inscrutable You. Even unbearable pain and incomprehensible hell may positively shape us, if we allow it and never choose the easy solution, the hurried and impatient remedy. Medicine, as difficult as it is to take, strengthens us so we may face and overcome far worse ailments, and if not for the ailment, we’d never have the opportunity to withstand and endure and scar.

Finally, when a consciousness is lost to the Oblivion, offer them the honor and glory that is memorial. Reminisce, and in doing so, resurrect their very self. Though that December Rose may be a metamorphosis of its former self, it simply cannot be without the experience that was borne of its architect and interpreter.

And that, my friends, is Beautiful.

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