The Curse of Immortality

The setting sun tore the sky asunder into a multiple array of colors, slowly morphing the ocean jet blue hues of the daylight atmosphere into the autumnal tones of reds, oranges, and yellows. The mountains standing far out into the distance blocked the rest of the horizon from view, like a veil too thick to break through.

Underneath the vast expanse of the sky undergoing its chaotic display of colors as the day bows down to night lies a weary traveler, he who has traveled through vast kingdoms and castles, much of which stood like dust palaces under the mercy of Father Time. The nomad always carried with him a rustic bag full of things from eras unknown and eons long passed.

As he ventures from place to place, he finds himself in the company of men and nature, both in their most vile and most content moments. He would sit with whoever gives him the space and the time to sit, and he would go on in great detail about the wondrous and amazing sights he has seen in his entire life, recounting tales about places frozen in time, lost out at sea, far beyond reach.

For many, his stories were the contents of fairytale books, one given to children to spark their imagination and curiosity and to help babysit them when their parents are occupied with the rigors of their daily routines. They do find him entertaining, admittedly. But in the end, they were all stories. No man could have ever possibly had enough time to have gone out and ventured into these places as they were—kingdoms and empires that men have not yet heard of.

Those who listen closely to his stories and refuse to dismiss them as creative undertakings alone would, however, notice a particularly interesting detail that lies hidden underneath all of his chronicles—birth, death, and time. Regardless of the time and place he was discussing, he would be too wise to not leave out the details of how such was born, its origins and the sparks of ideas and circumstances surrounding it, and how such ended, along with the often grisly and disturbing facts and facets accompanying it. Tying it all up, he would tell his audience that time was unforgiving and merciless, that no one could ever escape its grasp and reach, and even if one were to be the master of time, he would still be burdened by all that which has come to pass and all that is yet to come.

And so, he would go on his merry way, leaving behind men and women bewildered and amazed, some of whom would go as far as to say that he was some crazy fool exiled from his homeland and who has taken solace in the creative, but admittedly futile exploits of the literary arts.

To a few, he was the embodiment of his own stories and tales—one who has watched a thousand births and a thousand deaths, one who will always try to escape the influence of time who has been so utterly cruel to him, and yet never finding any repose from such an infinite and omnipotent being. He was, to them, an immortal being, cursed to live out all the lives of all the people he has encountered and cursed to forever live out all of their deaths.

They would leave, mortal humans that they are, and they would leave him with nothing but painful and bitter memories of better days never coming back. They saw him as a pitiful fool, one who cannot be blamed for his folly, for no sane mind can hold on for as long as time has no memory, and no strong heart can weather the passing of all those who hold the keys to its sanctuary.

He wasn't leaving a place in a merry way; he would leave it just as he had left all of those he cannot bring with him anymore, moving on to yet another fruitless sunset, the same old colors filling the same old, timeless sky, against the boundless horizons of peace and eternal rest guarded by steep mountains refusing him to pass on and breathe out his last—the curse of immortality to the one who has neither the heart nor the mind to endure it.

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Written on January 4, 2020