There are pieces of me that died too long ago. I don’t burn my soul on them like I used to. They’re not aesthetic, or for reasoning, or for false sympathies, yet I wonder if I’m ever going to be able to feel as alive, again. I wish, my how I wish I could grieve those passions long forgotten, I just don’t feel the smoldering flames tickling my soul anymore. I wish I could say the fire was unconscious, or suffocated but I don’t daydream like I used to. I think maybe it’s time to mourn the ash so dreams can rise reborn.