Someone asked me today about what kind of a person I was before Saagar died. I couldn’t remember. I had to really strain my memory. It seemed like such a long time ago. I just couldn’t remember.
The day he died, I died too. Now I am doing time left over from another lifetime. I am just a misshapen ball of jet-black tar attached to a few scraps. It twists and writhes with pain, constantly changing with every thought. The scraps threaten to fly away and a few fall off every day but some stay steadfastly stuck, giving it an illusion of completeness.
My life is over. Now I only represent Saagar. I am here to tell his story. I am here to keep him alive. My head and heart have been radically reprogrammed. I have no fears for myself. Nothing really matters anymore.
Because I don’t really exist anymore.