There are two certainties in life which I believe in: that I doubt—and to that, I shall ever be thankful—and that death is the absolute end. And, dear, do you know how hard is it for me to endure your loss?
We will decay and never again behold the beauty of life; we’ll be tossed in some place where our senses work no more. Do you know that we’ll never recognise each other? That this moment is fleeting? Nothing will last as we deemed it be. Alas, the abyss shall feed upon us, and darling, our bodies shall disperse. Our souls shall wither, if not laid to waste.
What we experience with our senses is not real; what we experience with our reason is. But dear, I can’t tell how I am experiencing your existence.
Gaze at the sky, dark as it is, and mesmerise the void that we shall merge with. Towards it we shall fly and feel like poor Icarus.

If we’re lucky enough, we’ll turn into a matter that comprises a star, galaxy, solar system, black holes. We might be a shooting star; maybe by then, we will have granted someone’s wish, if they do believe in shooting stars. Perhaps we might the substance of an asteroid that’ll hit a planet and create life as is the case now. Maybe if the odds were in our favour and life were created on a different planet, we will be guided to meet each other, though in different forms. But never are we bound to discern each other again, and that devastatingly distresses me.

For that, my dear, I invite you to mark this moment, engrave it in the depths of your heart. Let it be our legacy to this world.

Let us, then, hold hands and appreciate this ephemeral moment. I had no intention to make you weltered, but I can see no escape from this. Life is, indeed, absurd. Should we dwell upon that, we’d taint our moments.

We are not part of the universe, but we are the all-embracing universe per se. Let us fuse into one for we are one. And perhaps we shall be an instrument that echoes love.

Will it be a worthwhile odyssey, my dear?

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