My original character thoughts.

Cradle what is left,

PLEASE EXCUSE THIS STORY, IT WAS ME BEING SAD THIS MORNING AND WANTING TO GIVE LIFE TO OLD CHARACTERS. IF YOU AREN'T INTERESTED- IT'S FINE.

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Usefulness 
An odd thing to find a definition for. It's almost a game to find someone who defines it the same. Whether they see it defined by worth, or defining worth itself. Or your abilities, both able to define them or defined by them. Sense of purpose, can make you feel useful if you have it. Being poetic makes me feel useful, but I don't think it changes much. Though, I do hope that it makes people happier, knowing I like you, have feelings too. I'm not fake, I am real.

There is nothing left.




Memories are like weeds.
Beautiful Yellow, as a child you pick them endlessly and even if they die just as quick, they do not stop growing. Give a weed to your mother, she will pretend it is a flower and put it in a glass of water. It cannot be saved from dying. It dies soon after, but you just pick another to focus on in its place. A colourful memory of summers gone by, yellow, spiky, but cherished non the less.

The weed loses colour, and can be used to make a wish. Wish all you might for things you won't have. To be older than you are, to have wings to fly, or simply just to be like your Idol. Blowing the seeds away to hope it comes true, just to grow more weeds to bury the wish into a new memory.

Someone will pick the weeds,
A flower will grow in its place,
The cycle continues.




Memories are like a pet.
They can look different, they will look different, but somewhere some pet similar exists. Cats, so agile and skilled, live so long in our minds, but even those memories can die. What will be left of the memory may be ashes, so we just have more memories left to remember them. Dogs, while not as long, give so much entertainment in their lifetime, building up and slowly fading out into obscurity. The ashes are left for us to remember our companions, and the memories we can pick apart from the bigger picture and feel happy.

You might forget that time that your dog ate your shoe, or your cat bit your hand and remember instead when you would play fetch or just cuddle. In younger days you could've been irritating to them, but now that your older you appreciate that animal more. But you can always replace your friend with another, maybe in remembrance of them or to get over the loss.

The friend is lowered down,
A garden in their place,
the cycle continues.

Memories are people.
So many of them, and you can hate some, love more, or not care. But the moment that person leaves, there's always a part of them to be remembered. One is talented at creative hobbies, another talented with their logistics. Some are more neutral, but regardless of if you get two different people together with same talents, they will not have the same life, nor the same style in which they think, talk, walk, listen, and feel. Memories, we do not share, despite if they bloom from the same place.

When they're truly gone, what is left to remember? The people around them can tell their thoughts, tell their story, but you all see them differently. You might be someone close, expressing how amazing they were, but did they tell you all of what happened? Did you really experience the same thing? Do you remember clearly?
Do you remember?

Do you-?

Do you-?

Another one fades away into obscurity,
Yet just a bouquet in their place,
The cycle continues.

Maybe.




Trace your fingers over a picture, think of what it means to you. I wonder if a picture of nothing counts as something. If a picture of black can be remembered as a time, what point in time is it from? If every little picture was black, could you remember them?

I wish putting sharpie over parts of a picture could remove my memories at least. My memory hasn't faltered for awhile. After all, time doesn't exist in an aimless clock.






The creature, sat in nothing but quiet space, blinked as it traced over its thoughts, closing an eye and opening another quietly to find meaning in each one. Tirelessly, it looked for one that could mean something to someone else, but it found none of course. Nobody knew it existed besides itself, what was it meant to do besides gaze into nothingness?

Nothing knew of its presence all too well.
Nothing, is something, right?

"It has approximately been another century of this, spec."
It murmured softly, quietly cradling itself as it spoke to itself as if it mattered. It knew nothing was waiting for it, so it continued counting for awhile. If the world really needed it at some point in history, why were its glory days never to come? Was being a here for a purpose just a lie for someone to sit in eternal silence?