Who will tell your story?

I wished for forgetfulness not a long time back.
I wish for it still. That or the reassurance that someone will tell my story as I would capturing details instance by instance, capturing details version by version. From the eye of a beholder and the eye of a critique, from the fond recollection of a friend and perhaps the fiery tongue of a foe that lashes its venom.A lover's passion , an admirer's wistfulness, a stranger's bewilderment and an acquaintance's misgivings .

What to say of multitudes? I can not quite remember which role have  played to perfection.
What is to remember?
Who will tell your story?

The Vanishing Act II

It is not an abrasion of  the chaffed skin over the fresh wounds but the sudden merging of cicatrices with the flesh of my body. The healing gave way to such a rejuvenation that the scales of the past have been falling off. The tincture of time slowly wore of and the tourniquet was shed because a single stitch that was holding its ugly scar sunk in without a trace.

Even the bruises  that they left, the patchy discoloured skin has now blend in and feels like river bed silt bathed in the dawn. The light set in, the dark diminished from the rims of the incarnation that was once before.The soul rid of the self inflicted atonement and the guilt minuscule to null.
I know love again and am capable of it. I know the vitality of emotion and the flow of it through my veins and the will to spill them.

Another self is to die in this light and one wonders what all will die with it. It is the closure to a life disdained by its own wants and condemned by its needs.
Now he can disappear, the apparition he was , he flees . Today I set him free and with him my dark and my fears, my afflictions and infliction, my self righteous indignation and I let go for the first time in my life.

But well, for him it is just another vanishing act.His second one perhaps.

Not quite Mona Lisa.

but etched dark chocolate syrup should make this better art.