A life.

A belief that came in different forms. Or so I thought. But what is it really? Do I, who once believed that life is a journey until death, be able to know—understand—what life is? For me who lost what we called mortality?

Time and time again, my parents aged; my siblings, my friends, they all perished—and so are my children, and the children after them. And yet, here I am, alive.

I lived. I even lived past an Elf’s lifetime. For a human like me, no, for a being who was once a human, I could never experience what it meant to live while worrying about my aging body.

My body grew. But it never came to point where wrinkles would show itself on my skin. At best, my body stopped growing after the age of 21. It remained the same, even after I lost count of how old I was.

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Nevertheless, I slept. I slept because of the pain.

It was a pain I would gladly exchange for losing a limb or two. A pain of losing everyone I cherished. A pain from seeing my descendants taking each other’s heads for an empty, cold throne. A pain of seeing the mistakes my fellow humans made over and over again. It was as if all the efforts I made was nothing but a mere page in history.

How I wished I was numb. How I wish I never had to take the life of those people who was caught in-between the people’s desperation. How I wished I could have slept for the entirety of my life. How I wish. How I wish…

But now, that time came again. A time when I could not help but wake from my slumber. Another time for mourning.

Now, let’s see. What should I observe this time around? Maybe this time I would understand what life is.