Pondering Writing--A Sestina

I sit alone on grass that is too gray to be living.
The wind blows my hair into a wispy halo
On the air rests an echo of lies that so many other people have forgotten.
Only I remember.
The words which most say are my gift
Are, to me, the cruelest curse.

When people ask me why I think it a curse
I can only say that it would be better living
Without any sort of gift
than be she who has a glowing halo
That remains the one thing in history that people remember
When all else--the good, the bad, and the mundane--lay forgotten.

Why is everything rewritten, and the truth forgotten?
How can we know what in life is actually a curse?
How can we stop repeating mistakes, when lies are all we remember?
So many people in the world are living
While in truth reality simply drains away the halo
that is the intangible proof of our gift.

How can I speak of anything as a gift
When I say that the world has forgotten
That everyone has a halo?
It is only a curse
When those who are still living
have abandoned the ability to dream, deigning instead not to remember

what life really is about. I remember
A time when someone's gift
Was celebrated, before living
with the joy of childhood was forgotten
Discarded willingly for being grown up, which in itself is a worser curse
Trading horns and a bleeding soul for our halo.

Even now I'm still trying to cling to my halo
Forcing myself to remember.
And that is why my words are a curse
Instead of a gift
I rip my soul apart for things that everyone else has forgotten,
and find myself outside of existence, watching the ignorant living

It's times like this when I wish I had forgotten what it was like to have a gift--
Living with something that is both a curse and a gift at once.
Long ago, someone said, “Remember, everyone has a choice." So I stand up, and drop my halo as I leave.