Gone, not forgotten

These thoughts invade my mind. They take me back to times that are by turns too painful and beautiful to remember. I’ve never wanted to be one of those, who, like absinthe drinkers, are lost in dreams. Still, I go back.
You cannot remain in the past, and you can’t bring back the dead. I see them; they appear so alive and vital, I almost convince myself that if I believe enough, they’ll return. But it’s all in vain; for though your memory may come tantalizingly close, and though your heart breaks while you wither under the power of its lash, your past stays in your head, and your hands clutch at ghosts.
It’s as though the gods crack the door to eternity and allow you a glimpse, then slam it in your face, saying “leave it to us”...as if the whole thing were only a lesson.
But to see the beauty in this is to grasp the ropes of light that run uninterrupted between life and death. Touching them is an act of hope, for perhaps our loved ones on the other side, if there is another side, are touching them too.