There is something to be said truly about memories that do not leave you, people who make impressions upon you that truly are etched within you forever.

If there is one thing that can be said about someone who truly has a deep impact upon your life in some substantial way, it is that they have begun to mold a bit of who you are. They have become a part of you and in doing so have achieved one thing many humans seem to seek, an inkling of immortality. For in your memory they do exist, and upon reflection they may not be themselves truly- only what you remember is who they become and what all remember is who they will be into the future until their existence as dust is either obscured into the wind through time transforming into something else or they fade away quietly.

It is not only that they exist within your mind that is important though, for a humans frailty is something we must come to accept, but rather- it is to suggest that they begin to sculpt the person you are. Whether it is a dark seed planted within fertile ground in your mind, the destruction of what you once perceived as true, or maybe even something much smaller. Each presence has an impact- and each presence makes a change. We are all reflections of the people we have met, in all variations- a piece of soft clay pressed and twisted into shapes made through fragments of the individuals who had made shapes in others minds.

Theoretically picture this, your mind is a blank canvas- the picture evolves over time- and each person that passes through your life is a brushstroke. Some people make a large impact, huge emotionally charged strokes thrown out onto empty space that form who you are for many strokes to come. Some are much smaller, so small that they may seem utterly insignificant… but over time all of those small strokes also begin to form your picture- and you would not be who you are now without them. Some people may come through and re-purpose you, twist you around, turn you upside down- and rip your image right apart… you can try very hard to recreate the image of who you are- and get close, but you will never be the same even in their act of destruction- they contribute to your image. This painting that you are and have become over time is something utterly unique, but not always desirable. Some peoples canvas always seems not to try- the memories of those who make strokes are mixed and muddled- they often simply drip right off the canvas- and what is left is a blurred image- a portrait of a decaying mind. Other canvas may not have enough strokes even to fill the blank slate over the year, a single layer of paint where each impact is easily identifiable, but the unique property of who they are is lost in a sea of low mold- of impact so sparse that there is only left an unspeakable sadness in their lack of contact, the person who analyses the same strokes for their entire life… There are of course also those who have so many layers of paint that so many people become forgotten as the weight of their life becomes heavier and the pure white lonely space almost seems a gift from the highest powers.

In the end, each painting has something to offer another it sees… A human walking with a portrait on their chest, taking marks from others whilst hoping to make their own. In the end the paint will stop being place, the material will dry- harden- and crack. They will age into oblivion, and their pictures will blur until they decay into dust. Those who leave the biggest impact may stay clear for a long time, but only as a phantom- and seldom reaching peace. For their voice in decay was given too great a chance, and they only seemed to hope to inspire different markings on others who now wish only to achieve their masters trade.

We each have something to offer, we each have something to give- we each have something to take- we each are always to be. But truly above all else there is one fact that remains, whilst all may fade into dust- we each have one mark on ourselves, at least one mark that shines. One mark upon us that cuts into the canvas just a bit too deep, that we see in our dreams, that we see on others too. They are marks that bring us to our knees, that make us tremble- that make us bleed. A simple line on the story of our life, not positioned particularly important- or notable- that we can remember for the way they held their brush. Marks etched into our minds from the moment we seen the portrait of their life, or even just a blurred reflection of it. A single stroke which weighs upon our heart, makes us wish we were born a new, a single mark that sent us spiraling into insanity when we felt the sensation of visualizing it amidst the marks so many others had made.

There is always one unforgettable.