Of life in roman ruins

Once in a while I find myself thinking (and feeling) of the future, when this could all be over. A future when I accept all exciting promises were denied and there will be nothing more for me to achieve, when there will be no wars and no foolish ambitions. There will be no more quintessences, crests, spells. No burning Flames, no scorching Scourgers.

I don’t know if it’s going to be through meaninglessness, as I would grow too weary of trying, and I would throw a stone and swear against those beacons of hope bringing me nowhere. The life in the eternal blackout would no longer be worrisome. I’d only go back to being the ordinary boy I once was.

So when I feel there’s nothing more for me to achieve and I’m feeling so short of energy and inspiration to go on, it’s not the hope that saves the day. It’s the guilt for leaving behind all the dreams and the conquered challenges. They would always remain inside me. Haunting ghosts of prosperous tomorrows would blame me for not trying to interfere with the world standing in my way.

I wonder whether life in a world where glory is already gone could be possible. These ruins would always be a reminder of all that I would achieve. Maybe being so hungry and foolish is something inherently mine. And these dark ages would only mean it’d be a matter of time before a new renaissance.