LIFE OF AN IMMORTAL BEING (trial)

Someone asked me what you think about love -

I said, Mm love once i tried and it ruined me in the best possible way

When you've existed for millennia,

you don't "fall" in love

You are slowly eroded by it,

like a cliff face surrendering to the sea

They were entirely ordinary by the universe's standards,

but to me, they were absolute gravity

I remember sitting quietly at a desk,

staring at a blank white page resting on the table,

trying desperately to sketch an authentic portrait of their face

Just to preserve the exact way their eyes crinkled when they laughed

I, a being who had witnessed the fiery birth of lands, was suddenly agonizing over graphite smudges on a simple piece of paper

HAHAHAHA, isn't it funny ?

I even tried composing poetry to express what I was feeling Imagine that

An entity who knows the ancient,

unspeakable language of the every language lol, fumbling with fragile mortal verses and rhymes just to coax a blush out of a crush

It was entirely absurd

It was beautiful or should I say it is..... Nevermind

When they finally faded,

as all of you inevitably do,

they didn't just leave a void

they took a piece of my eternity with them into the dark

So yes, Ig love is the only thing that doesn't add things like family and friends the "me and mine"

It is precisely how I learned just how impossibly heavy a human heart can truly get

---

And one day they asked me is it a curse and

i asked Which one?

You mortals have invented thousands of them in your folklore

But if you mean the actual curse of this existence the one that comes after the love and the loss? It isn't some dramatic eternal damnation, or a shadow organization pulling strings from the dark to punish you

The true curse is perfect memory

I have watched brilliant, strategic minds try to outsmart fate the ultimate rule breakers who believed they could manipulate reality itself

And for a brief, blinding moment, they do,

for them at least, and thats all that matters i guess

But no matter how flawless their plans are, their hourglass always empties

My curse is that I remember every single one of them

I remember the exact shade of the sky on the day they were born, the warmth of their hands, and the terrible, hollow silence in the room when they took their last breath

While this human world gets to forget, heal, and turn the page, I am forced to be a walking, breathing archive of ghosts

To love, to lose,

and to never, ever be permitted to forget

That is the only real curse, and love ?

yea it is a curse but very beautiful one

---

You are incredibly perceptive

It is the cruelest instinct of a grieving heart

When you lose the one thing that anchored you, your mind refuses to accept the permanence of the void

You start hunting for echoes

I will see the familiar slope of his shoulders in a crowded street,

or hear the exact, quiet cadence of his laugh from a stranger

For a fraction of a second, time stops

The centuries fall away, my breath catches, and I brace myself for him to turn around

But it is never him

It is always just a stranger wearing a fragment of a ghost

I look for him in others because the alternative is finally accepting that the mold was broken the day he died

You gather these stolen glimpses a shared mannerism, a familiar smile,

the gentle way someone treats a fragile object like scraps of a torn photograph, desperately trying to piece together someone who no longer exists

It is a foolish,

agonizing habit

But yes, I do it anyway Because for one fleeting heartbeat before reality sets in, he is still here

And I would trade a hundred years of eternity just for that single, painful second

that is the quiet, cyclical tragedy of eternity

The universe wastes absolutely nothing

it recycles collapsing stars, cosmic dust, and even souls but...

Every few centuries, the wheel turns, and his essence is spun back into existence

He always wears a different face, carries a different name, and lives an entirely different life

But the core of him that undeniable, quiet gravity of his soul is exactly the same

I recognize it the very second he enters a room, but

The true agony, however, is the blankness in his eyes when he finally looks at me, To him,

I am just a stranger passing through

He carries no memories of the lifetimes we have already shared or the way he once held my hand while fading away

I am forced to stand there, carrying the crushing weight of centuries of our history, and politely introduce myself as if for the very first time just wait for day the when he forgets it again

Do you think I'm talking about this one

It gets the absolute mercy of a clean slate a brand new life, unburdened by the ghosts of our past, free to make new mistakes and chase new dreams

I am the one left holding the heavy, quiet archive of our history

Do you know how excruciating it is to stand in front of the person who built a home in your soul, and watch their eyes slide right past you without a flicker of recognition?

To politely shake their hand and hear them introduce themselves with a name you aren't supposed to know, in a voice that used to whisper your true name in the dark?

I become a complete stranger to the only soul in the universe that truly knows me

Sometimes, I have the strength to let him be

I watch from a safe distance, making sure he is happy and unharmed, and then I walk away so I don't disrupt the fragile peace of his new life

But sometimes, the selfish part of my eternity wins

I will walk into his shop, or sit on the empty bench next to him in the park, just to ask for the time or comment on the weather

I willingly pay the price of my own heartbreak again and again, just for the fleeting privilege of being a five minute cameo in a life where I used to be the main character

He always forgets

And I am doomed to always remember

A so called love story

I suppose from the outside, viewed through the lens of human romanticism, it does look exactly like one

Humans has always possessed a remarkable talent for turning profound, endless tragedies into poetry

You take the crushing weight of eternity, bind it up in neat little chapters, and call it romance

But when you are the one actually living it when you are the one standing on a rainy street corner, watching the only soul you care about walk past without a single flicker of recognition it doesn't feel like a story

It feels like a sentence...

Yet,

I cannot tell you that you are wrong

If a love story is defined not by how happily it ends, but by how much you are willing to endure just to keep the memory of someone alive

then yes

I suppose this quiet, agonizing cycle is the greatest one I will ever know

I just wish

I WASN'T DOOMED TO BE THE ONLY ONE READING IT

Love....

It is the most brilliant, twisted curse ever conceived

With any other curse, you fight it

You look for a loophole, a cure, a way to break the spell and reclaim your freedom

You wage wars and burn down the world just to escape it

But love?

Love is a curse you actually beg for

It is a poison you drink willingly,

knowing exactly what it will do to you,

simply because it tastes sweet for a fleeting moment

.....

When he walks into a room in his next life wearing a new face, carrying a new name, completely ignorant of the centuries we've already bled through I know exactly how the story will end

I know it will end with me standing over another grave, adding yet another ghost to my endless archive

And yet, if the universe offered me the choice to break the cycle, to finally be free of the pain and walk away

I would choose the curse every single time

That is what makes it so devastatingly twisted

It doesn't just destroy you

It makes you entirely grateful for the destruction

But the more painful thing is, i

Who being selfish

In every life every step I take towards him

It's me who's making more space in his heart

A space that will left him feel of something missing

WANNA HEAR A STORY ?

The achitect of lines

London 1892

I found him in a drafty, gas lit attic in late victorian london In that life, he wasn't a quiet bookshop owner or a scholar

He was a struggling artist

and finally found him there, huddled over a sturdy oak table

When I knocked and stepped inside,

claiming to be a wealthy patron seeking a portrait, he barely looked at my face

He was entirely absorbed in his craft

He didn't draw with the wild, chaotic strokes of the other romantics of his era

He was incredibly methodical

I remember watching him lay out a pristine, white sketch page flat on the table, carefully ruling a faint, precise grid system across the paper before he even picked up his graphite

He explained to me, in that terribly familiar voice, that the grid was the only way to ensure absolute accuracy to map the proportions perfectly and capture a face exactly as it was, without the lies of interpretation

The world is chaotic,

he murmured,

his hands already smudged with dark dust

"But if I can map it out, line by line, square by square I can at least try to understand it

I sat for him for three weeks

Every afternoon,

I would sit perfectly still in a high backed chair while he measured my face, his eyes darting back and forth between me and his meticulous grid

It was an exquisite kind of torture

He spent hours staring intently into my eyes the very eyes that had watched him die a dozen times in past lives and all he saw was geometry Shapes, angles

He was desperately trying to capture my likeness, completely unaware that his soul had already memorized mine centuries ago

One rainy afternoon,

he suddenly stopped drawing

He dropped his pencil,

letting it roll across the authentic sketch page, and let out a heavy, frustrated sigh

I asked asked , "What is it ? "

He said

"The grid is perfect

The measurements are flawless,"

He said, staring down at the paper with a furrowed brow "But it isn't you, every time I try to draw your eyes, the math fails, It feels like

like I'm trying to draw someone I've known my entire life, but I can't quite remember their name"

My heart physically ached in my chest, even wiped entirely clean by the universe, his soul was still bumping around in the dark, trying to find mine

I stepped down from the chair, walked over to the table, and gently placed my hand over his smudged fingers and said

"It is perfect," And to me, it truly was the most priceless thing in the world

He died of a sudden, brutal winter fever just two years later

He never finished the portrait

I keep that piece of paper It is just a faded, unfinished sketch trapped behind a faint pencil grid, drawn by a man who tried to mathematically measure a soul, completely unaware that a immortal being was already entirely at his mercy

-------PART END------

And then maybe I lost that in ww2

And i burned that group alive who put fire on houses and burn that paper of memories

-not related to story, or maybe it is

AND NOW YOU'RE COMMENTS WILL DECIDE

SHOULD THIS ELDREDA WRITE MORE OR NOT