A distant echo of dry leaves scattered on paths blended with my desolation. The voyage had been terminated by a reality that thrived on conformity, and I was expected to conform to the notion that this reality was a necessity. That the reality of epilogues was an absolute end.
My time spent on the island of contradictory landscapes taught me that epilogues are the necessary foundations for the process of continuation. The past held the scent of new beginnings, and names etched in history were slivers of reality depending on memory to survive. Narratives gained an identity in an epilogue that was either absolute in its termination, or else allowed the author and reader to wallow in a lake of possibilities.
I was enamoured of a fictitious reality that was intelligent enough to discern between the concepts of suffering to be free, and the freedom that comes from conviction.