Empty space. The dark void of which we came from. Nothing from something. Simply spoken, this world. The animals appear, confused and unknowing. We grow from the dust, passions already within us. More and more. Living things all around. Breathing, thinking, learning. Grass trails turn into dirt paths, dirt paths to cement roads. Open shoes find themselves closing, tunics stripped from any being with tesostrone in his bones. Years, years, years. They change, they go by. They sweep you off your feet and take you on journeies you might never understand. From an empries battle, to a revolution of the colonists, to terror, rising in the blood of our people. The 21st century. Born, this youthful, sad soul. I was two, three, four, five, on and on. A first step, first word, first school, first kiss. I'm nothing but a document of firsts.
But, one day, that will change. I'll be a piece of last. Last step, last word, last tear, last touch. I'll slowly fade, like the colors in the polaroid pictures. Am I a beautiful photo? A memorable photo? Or simply a photo of black, unreadable and irrelivant. To most souls, we are the last. We are not in their lives, in their history, in their hearts, in anything at all. We are simply in the ever growing population, our lives not deserving their thought. But, one day, a document of our beings won't really even exist. We'll be nothing to everyone. The trees will stop budding, the grass will stop reaching towards the sky. The world will simply stop, as quickly and as unwarned as our slowing hearts.