Memories.

I have lived a ordinary life, that I am certain. Though the standard rules of life have never applied to me, for I am not terrified of death. Death is not my end, for my memory never dies, my memory extends back all the way to my first life. I am no where near perfect, in most ways I am like every other person on this planet. When it comes to my memory though, I am unique, I am alone with a talent I am unable to share. I drink my tea with three sugars, no milk. Sometimes I still get scared of the dark. I paint with passion and intensity, the mystery of Atlantis still fascinates me, yet I lived in the time of the Trojan War. I do not boast, I am not brave and my courage has its limits. I have done nothing extraordinary with my memory, I have lived a common life. No monuments have ever been built for me, and after I die again, my name from this life will slowly be forgotten. I despise the colour orange. In some aspects one might say I have succeeded in every way a person can, that I would disagree with. For I still write with spelling mistakes. There are many things I wish I could forget, like the viking raids in Ireland that left my family killed or the smell of burning flesh. I have lost a lot, I have gained some more, and I have loved someone persistently for two thousand years. The secrets of the world are not mysteries to me, and the smell of still rain intoxicates me. I have lived an ordinary life, that I am certain. For me, that will always be enough.