If you asked him, Epicurus would have told you he was happy. And he truly was. In his passionate speech and dramatic actions, he found joy. He had genuine curiosity, and was quick to laughter. He could strike up a conversation with anyone good at the art. He was engaged with the world, yet separate from it. When the school bell rang, other children would get together in loud, messy groups. Epicurus skipped home alone, his mind happily occupied by the colourful leaves, the climbing squirrels or the songs in his head. He possessed a deep and reclusive joy. No one has ever been a part of it.
When friendships did occur, Epicurus hardly ever initiated them. Some other kid would find his quirks endearing, and simply pull him into their life. For some time, Epic would be part of a duo (or a group). He attended the parties, ran about playing some life-threatening 'game', sat at the lunch tables, and learned the jokes. He enjoyed these seasons of friendship. When time came for these friends to move on, Epic experienced a quiet farewell. And then, he would gradually return to his books, his walks, his songs, and his reclusive joy. No lingering devastation. The friendship quietly faded.
As Epic grew older, his solitary nature led to quiet introspection. He became an observer of his own life. He had not befriended many people, but every friend eventually left, and was forgotten. What was unsettling was not their departure (life is what it is, as they say: "है तो है"), but his own reaction. He realized how terrifyingly easy it had been to let them go. His reclusive joy was not merely comfort; it was something like a tool of erasure.
And then, another friend had to leave. Epic felt a dread in his chest. "I know exactly what is going to happen", he thought. He saw the future. He saw them moving away. He saw himself walking back to his house. He knew he would feel an ache for a week, maybe two. And then...the reclusive joy would wash over everything. The shared history would blur, and the chapter moved to a silo he never dared approach (or had any clue as to where to find it). The thought of returning to normal broke his heart. The ability to detach (to forget), which had protected him from the pain of loss for so long, felt like a curse.
He did not wish to forget. He does not like keeping memories either. He wished for his friends to stay longer; he knew he would forget. He wanted them to stay a lifetime. He did not want to forget their laugh, their ideas, their speech. He did not know how to find their memories when they were gone. He never found where his mind stored them. They say memories make life. Epic cannot find his memories. He is like a child in these respects.
The good ones should stay.