I am the world’s ugly memory, and soon I will die.

Since I was born I have offered myself to my fellow, beloved humanity to absolve them of their memories. Whenever a memory is too ugly, too painful, too raw to dare recollect, they ease their burden into me. Within my fathomless, wanton frame that once almost bore similarity to theirs I hold secrets of awful deeds done to and by all folk.

I wear their quelled desires like a cloak of unrequited passions; a shimmering black void from which nought but urgent need can escape. To look upon my cloak is to know boundless hunger, to feel the ocean of all want crash down around you and overwhelm your being.

Yet people still gaze upon me gratefully.

On my skin are etched the million million secrets that cut too deep. These unspoken scars scintillate and fidget upon my manlike flesh, revealing nothing but their own raw privacy. To look upon my skin is to know the extent of humanity’s misdeeds, their reckless nature, their self-conscious hate, and be forced to confront it.

Yet people still look upon my flesh in wonder.

In my head I carry a special madness. The burning agonies that prevented some from action, the freezing heartache that broke brilliant minds, the electrifying presence of gods and monsters that reduced minds to ash for their own games. Within my looming, skinless skull this blighted thought thrashes, captive. To dare catch my eye is to invite the world’s madness into your mind for but a brief moment, and to feel the hopelessness of all things great and awful.

Yet people excitedly catch my eye and hold it dearly.

In my heart is the darkest, foulest memory. To consign a memory to my heart is not to be totally rid of it; for this is a darkness too great for any one heart to fully bare. It leaves a cancerous scorch upon the soul, even as the mind forgets its presence. Better that, though, than to invoke those thoughts that shallowly divide man from true monstrousness. My black, thrice-pierced heart beats to the rhythm of the world-song, but softly the discord grows as my time draws nearer. To touch my heart is to know the final death of all things and remember it forever.

Yet some few still deem that curse a lesser burden than their own.

For an endless age I have worn my cloak and my shredded flesh, held my head high, and borne the brunt of my beating heart within my chest; but soon I must end. I am full to bursting with sorrows, and yet I would gladly consume tenfold more to ease my dear humanity, but I can no longer. I am too old, too tired, too awful; the pale fields that hold and bind all life can no longer take my weight and still uplift the others. I must be released.

So, let it be, I shall slip through the world-song and release all my monstrous energies. Some agonies may cling to my dying form, but many of the memories I hold will surely find their way back to their true masters. Darling humanity will have to find some way to face that hardship.

I will remember, even when I am inert; this I will make sure of. I have grasped the spark too long to ever be fully dimmed, even when the pale bounties are long in my past. Let my colossal unexistence remind them of these fading echoes.

I am the memory, and soon I must end.

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