Reflections

Everything eventually becomes a memory...
Stored in the deepest secrets of the soul, it lives as silence, quiet upon pure springs; it is given a note of infinity and becomes azure, transparent, and pure. Repented, mourned, forgiven, packed into clean boxes under the name of memory. And then you become peaceful and pure without sin, without doubts, bathed in pain you move on. On your face another wrinkle, but peaceful, serene. In your gaze something lived through, which somehow makes your eye clearer and firmer, without fear. On your lips a secretive line, of something lived through, with an enigmatic smile, without dread, ready for life. You move forward and grow, carrying with you your clean boxes, deeply stored. Is it through the fires of oblivion that we are born anew, alive, having burned away our old self?
Where the old becomes new, inspired, illuminated?