flammes sans fin

Falling down is always easier than getting up.
How easily it is to forget and how hard we struggle to remember moments we deem worthy. I envy the man who can recall the scorched night he fought hell, and chooses to forget the spark of why.
I know how.
The why is fleeting.
F
 a
   l
  l
 i
  n
    g.
Making amends with the inevitable end, the ground reaches closer still. Knowing now how I find myself here, I truly understand the journey of a forgotten idea. Lifted in through the bay of bliss reminiscence, the idea floats like a feather that is aware the sky ends somewhere. The gas flows freely and welcomes itself into every single alcove of the sidewalk, and every crack in the concrete tells a story, but the flint has run out.
The spark of it all has humiliated itself. Without genuine retribution, the flames can never light again. Its sole purpose denied; a memory that remembers to forget.
But it can’t remember why.
Fires with no end have no beginning: Flammes sans fin, the flames that can never die.