I buried my past seven feet beneath the earth,
where roots never ask
why a flower was born from war.
I buried the man I used to be
without a priest, without a bell, without farewell,
because some deaths are far more polite
when nobody notices they happened while you\'re still alive.
There lies the fellow
who smiled without distrusting the mirror,
who loved without counting his scars,
who believed in happiness
the way a drunk believes in the last drink:
knowing it might be a lie,
but paying for it anyway.
I buried him with my own hands.
And perhaps that is the worst part.
Because I still remember how he loved.
I still remember how he believed.
I still remember that bloody fool
who called hope a future
and never realised
the future knows how to dig as well.
Seven feet.
It doesn\'t sound terribly deep
when you\'re standing above the ground.
But try climbing down
with every memory strapped to your back
and you\'ll learn that hell
doesn\'t need fire.
It only needs memory.
Sometimes I speak to him in the small hours.
I ask:
— Are you still there?
And silence answers
with that dreadful little politeness
of someone who knows far more than he ought to.
So I laugh.
Because, really,
there\'s something rather funny
about burying a man
and carrying on with his name.
Perhaps I\'ve gone mad.
Perhaps he did.
Perhaps neither of us exists anymore
and this is merely a letter
written by someone
who couldn\'t find anyone
to deliver it to.
But if one day you wish to find him,
don\'t look into my eyes.
They\'ve learnt how to lie.
Don\'t look at my smile.
It has learnt how to survive.
Come below the surface.
Seven feet beneath the earth,
there is an old photograph,
a rusting heart
and a man who still believes
someone might come back for him.
Or perhaps there is nothing.
Perhaps you will dig down to the bones
and find nothing but soil.
Perhaps you\'ll find an empty grave.
Perhaps you\'ll find me.
And if you do...
don\'t be so certain
that I was the one who was buried.
Because tonight
I heard someone digging
on the other side of the wall.
And I swear the voice was mine.
Or his.
Or yours.
I don\'t know.
But keep digging.
The surface is getting
further away.
enitnatsnoC oãoJ