To the dearest ground I once walked upon and the acres that will never cross,

My time was short-lived. I never quite understood the mind of a human being, but I've come to realize that much of what we do is to learn. It truly is as simple as that. I've learned to cling to things that never held any true value, such as my favorite attire. Always the simple button-up shirt and beige pants that painted what many viewed as "respectable." Ironic it was, playfully painted over by a shadow of deceit. I may as well be the farthest creature from such an honorary title. The telling between “right” and “wrong” for the sake of acceptable morals is a vague image that I have tried to clear many times. You'd best believe that was quite a common assumption for young ones of my age.

Young. A word that hung around me year by year, from the time I was born, I’d been told how “you’re still so little, you’ve yet to explore the world.” As a child, I was well aware of that tale, until it became a recurring one. Young head painted the walls, my face, my thoughts, my steps, and my very being. Perhaps a comforting truth was to tell others of that youth. I know that a minute from now, I’ll be older, but never “old.” I’ve come to notice that this is one of the many human necessities, forever young so that death may never dangle around, and once it has, it is only repeated once more.

The day of my funeral, I remember it in great detail. They’d put me in an exceptional casket, not many showed up, and of those who did, never entered my memories. Some even shed tears for my sake, I thought it was shocking. Such as that older woman, she’d spout things about me being well spoken, a true role model for young men alike, which was funny as I’d never really spoken at all. And when I did, it was never well. I’m almost certain that humans are molds and that beings are meant to sink into them. If not, at least the portrayal, and even then, the mind will do it for you if you tell it enough.

Then there was an older man, perhaps the woman’s husband. Said I was a gentleman, hard working, and a symbol of kindness. I’d never met the man, I’d think anyone who were to have held even a short conversation with me would know that I was quite the opposite. I’d not cared much about anything, myself included. Most days, I wore the same garments and worked enough so I wouldn’t starve. I’d very much slack. The most I’ve given is not nearly as much as I’ve taken; my heart holds no regret.

A lady dressed in a sweet, elegant black dress was shown as well. She’d hold tissues and sat respectfully beside the older couple. She hadn't spoken a word, but in her trembling gaze, I wouldn’t think she was able to. Stunned, the only person I had any relationship with, Cecelia. I met her during my early days of university. I went on to pursue engineering, not knowing the specifics yet. I don’t quite remember her profession, but she did hold a great love for the creatures of the land. She’d hold a gaze normally reserved for a human being, I wouldn’t comprehend, but she was admirable, like-able, not what I’ve wanted to be but traits I appreciated. At least with her, it didn’t feel like she put on my mask for me.

I didn’t have much, but I found solace in the small ones I did, such as my watch. I’d worn it nearly every day. My shoes, the little dingle at the door when I visited Cecelia, and her herself, of course. I volunteered to care for the plants because my neighbors were away, but my disinterest killed them. The small cat that followed me to work every morning. I’m not sure if it’s my gratitude or my familiarity with those around me that I cannot imagine my days without it. What once were my days. I bid farewell to that, and I'm not sure what else I should add to my list of farewells.

Goodbye,

A.T.