The remnant of something that was once beautiful is, at times, just as magnificent.
There’s a subtle reassurance in the sublime wreckage that no things are meant to last.
It’s always the memories. The mesmerizing, haunting, bittersweet, alluring, and tragic memories, that we find our solace in.
That’s all that lasts.
A familiar nostalgia.
Of the times that have passed ages ago.
Of the times we cling on to, only to have it slip through our fingers like sand.
At times, I believe, it’s the hope of resilience.
That we will rebuild. We will rekindle the spark of magnificence.
It might not be as grandeur. Maybe not as aesthetic. Maybe even subpar.
But it will be ours.
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