It used to be that way, at least. for every sung story there was a nother one that got lost and a few remembered or cared about but that never really became important for the majortiy that ruled the logic of events or made your existence worthy cause they remembered it and talked about it.
In the end, most life were made of a few good songs and a lot of b-sides. Or like a large sheet of paper, covered in words and tales, where suddenly some took a lit cigarete and started burning holes. The holes took away whole sections of the story and while the pages went on, there were more and more h0oles. It still made sense to most, but who wrote the story knew that most of it was missing.
He used to think all days would matter. He lived every day to the bone. Even the inane moments had a strength to them that made them stick. He made mekories, whether it was through awkward times ina school builfding or with his early friends doing their first silly but unforgettable mistakes. or with his ealry girls, failing more than what he was achieving. Spending time with his family. Time that wasnt pleasant or good but stayed there.
Maybe it was hope, Maybe it was the fact that with so many years ahead, things were more maningful back then. He didnt realize it. All he did was live the days and dream of times where things would achieve. He hadnt known the taste of the bottom yet. The real bottom, the one thgat doesnt taste like tears but has a blank feeling that erases all taste and makes you forget what you loved once. That digs holes in your stories. that makes your time a b-side, while you start hating the main song.
The thing changed. As they always do. He started having to make decisions or let others make them for him. Go to school. Picka job. Choose if you wanna live or survive. Live your week waiting for the weekend to come so tyou can get shitfaced and feel like you really have feelings again. But all that happens is that those few days slip away and you're on monday again, waiting for the nest time.
It wasnt that good, lets hope next one is better. Maybe tomorrow things will be better. Dont loose hope, things will improve. Its almost saturday, we'll get drunk and forget this week. Its almost.
And suddenly it was all about moving forward. He lived the best parts in life withotu actually thinking about what was happening. And he didnt know that was what was happening. He loved and fucked and all he could think was "what will i do tomorrow?". "What will i do next?" "what if...".
And then it was gone. All went away before he started loving it. He4 became alone before he started realizing how beautiful thew times were. And the days started slipping.
Put sand, colourful, beautiful sand in your hands. It slips away. Calmly at first, then faster, and faster. Suddenly the hands are empty and you abrely remember how the sand looked like and how it felt touching it and feeling it. And the memeories fade, no matter how hard you squeeze your brain to keep them, they get eaten away from your soul as you die one second at a time.
And all you want is to at least feel again what it was like. You know you cant go back there, but at least remember. At least hold on to a day. but it slips while you're thinking.
He kept losing one day after the other and he didnt kno why. And they became years.
Things went away, people died.
He just blacked out cause being there was scary. Then he blacked out cause he forgot how to be there. Then he just wasnt there anymore. The black out was his life. And he was dead inside. No memories. Nothing left. Blank.
Someone told him that your life has a meaning in th hearts of the one who rememeber you. Yet nothing really si remembered. His father wanted to send him in the world as a man and failede. He never had children of his ownNo one remembers who the fuck he was now.