Should I start this post with a question?
Is originality to be desired above quality? Do we have to make that choice?
The world slowly faded to black as I watched. I tried several times to look away, but looking away would mean that it's over, as if that weren't certain already. The black spot on the horizon that I had been staring at, thinking it was you turned out to just be a rock sticking out of the ocean somewhere where the water grew shallow. You were gone, and it didn't matter how long I stared, I would never see you again.
You taught me that living is the best way to honor the dead, and so I know that every moment spent here staring at the ocean, looking for the boat that carried your empty shell to sea is only serving to dishonor that memory, but I just can't tear myself away. Not yet. Who will teach me now that you're not here? I always hated your lessons, but I would give anything for one verbal sparring match, in which I would inevitably lose. One more time when you could tell me that my "youthful pride is getting old, and soon will turn to stubbornness." You were one to talk, old man. If only I had listened more, or offered more time. Maybe I would feel better about this. Maybe you wouldn't have left such a hole in my life.
I step down from the cliffs where you told me never to go, finally ready to listen.
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