You will grow old. You will be forgotten.

This is mine to tell: when I’m old, I will be forgotten.

- - -

My name is not important. It hasn’t been since the Romantics. Besides, this is about you and not me. –Once, you had luxurious hair and you had love. You had a pink face, like the pink on a Valentine’s Day card.

But there are fleeting things you did in youth; such as, kiss your high school sweetheart on her deceitful lips, fall drunkenly into a stranger’s bed, or remain deep in a woman long after she abandoned you. These are the things that you did in youth, which make you old.

However, the sadness of life is there can be no sadness. In the hopes and expectations of childhood, you never had examples of love. From the beginning it was only "you shall age" and "you will experience sickness" –perhaps some sort of death. And this is all so Buddhist to you, when you just wanted to be Christian, (I agree, but this story is about you and not about me).