Death scares me, but time is worse.

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It's five in the morning, I'm standing inside a (friend's) friend's house, on the top of a wild mountain, and everyone else is sleeping. Yesterday night (basically three hours ago) we tried to get drunk (I didn't manage), I am the only one that stayed up till now.

In front of me are two good friends of mine, hugging each other tight while sleeping on a small, uncomfortable couch that they somehow landed on. It's beautiful how two adult boys can still hug each other as if they were nine. It's the sweetest thing I've seen in quite a while.

(Aand I just saw the biggest spider ever. Hope they won't crawl over me.)

Now, I don't want to beat around the bush too much. In this house once lived somebody who is now dead. My (friend's) friend's mother, as a matter of fact. Two years ago. And nobody seems to be thinking of that but me. Which is normal of course; for them, not me.

So many signs of a lived house. A child's stickers on the window, hand-decorated lilac walls, Egyptian paintings and pink cutlery.
A house so lived with a piece that went missing quite a few years ago, because of cancer.
The guy was 16 when his mother died.
I don't even know how to begin processing that.

(By the way, I'm still hoping that damn spider won't reach me.)

Every little thing is part of one big memory, and the people that are right now inside this house don't even think about that. Because in the end, what's one insignificant little life, compared to that damn, unmerciful, flow of time?

I hate when people forget stories.
I don't ever want to forget about this one.
Death scares me, but time is worse.

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