Time does not matter. Only life matters.

Words spoken long ago, still vibrating in my mind, whispering and dancing on the edge of consciousness. An awareness never quite distant, disappearing with the finality of the sunset; never quite fulfilled, ever opaque. Words spoken long ago... A passing stranger, a silhouette with a nameless face, faceless name, that I heard utter these words in a tavern some two hundred years ago. With lips that have long since gone cold.

Only life matters.

If this single concept is the sole quality that is to endure, that is important, tell me, then, what is the essence? The importance seems to elude me, turning it all into a fantastic jest of which I am the center. Destiny for every life, perhaps, or one life to protect another. But natural selection will naturally select only a few for this great deed. Destiny, becoming sentient, will select only a few for a final and meaningful purpose. What of the rest, those that Fate looks upon and passes over. And what for the few who don’t feel the passage of life, who have a perpetual indifference in the twilight of the tale?

Time does not matter.

In the end, perhaps, it does not – if ever there was an end. So in the course of things, then, I must agree – it does not matter. This portion of the statement, at least, may well be true. Because time has no meaning. To the mortal it has a purpose. It is time, and there is no other way to describe it. It is the passage of emotions and events that will mark the life like ripples in a puddle as the end inevitably cascades near. But to the immortal – it is what? It is a concept far below us, to be looked over and then overlooked, and remembered only as an often cruel reminder of what we are not.

In the eternal twilight the twin moons gazed down upon me. Midnight, twilight, painfully bright midday – they are all essentially the same, with only the hues molding and dancing to a different song. Standing upon the deserted hill, overlooking the glimmering lights of another city in the matrix of thousands, feeling the wind exhale from the sky.

I raised my eyes skyward, letting them trail over the feeble stars that continued to fight with an admirable quality, across the velvet patches that were thin clouds scudding across the sky. Gazing upon the two moons that emitted a living feel of returning my gaze. Their moon, the mortal moon, was red tonight. Sickly, shallow, the deep color infected it. Almost crimson enough to be worthy of the moon hanging off to it’s side.

The moon of the immortal.

I recalled the first time I lay dazed eyes upon that moon, saw it hanging next to the other. I somehow knew it had always been there. From that moment on, it would never let me forget.

And as the soft wind gained strength, as I stood on that pedestal of a hill, they both returned my searching gaze, looking so lovely, two droplets of blood on the flesh of the sky. Blood that I would die for, in more than one sense. Blood that became and embraced my life – another meaning twofold.

I threw my head back, flung my arms wide. Inhaling deeply, I tasted the currents of the night, felt the lurid glow of the moons wash over me. Perhaps it was worth it, to be immortal, for single moments like these. Moments when I know that time has no meaning and that I could forever embrace this night I so love if I truly desired it. There was nothing I would ever give up such freedom – even as it sometimes became a horrid captivity – for.

And then I found you.