Life, by it’s nature is a fiddly thing. No path is ever truly straight, just as perfection can never truly be defined by any bard or poet no matter their experiences in life, love or loss. You could travel to the ends of the Earth and back and still never find what you’re looking for despite having all the resources you could ever possibly need. Just as love and friendship can never be bought, the cycle goes on. Time never ceases even at the end of all the worlds, when nothing is left yet breathing to feel it’s passing. Through all the convoluted ways of life, the only things that can be left after all deaths and ends are echoes. Echoes of great grey hills. Echoes of lives once lived. Echoes of loves now lost. But what truly is an echo? A sound? A memory? Or a tale with no one to tell it? Does an echo matter when that which caused it has faded into and out of the collective pools of shadowed memory?

Perhaps, if we were to delve into one of these echoes that time overlooked, we could answer the questions no one ever thinks to ask.

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Author guidance for This story

As yet, the MATURE label is there just in case :) It probably wont be needed, but we'll see how things play out, shall we :)

updated Dec 27 '11 by JessWess