Originally Posted: 10/5/08
We will whisper like wind in the dark crevasse, like the world's last quiet breath. Impaled on the stake of our own love where we cried out the death throes of our pitiful mistakes. We'll writhe until the fight has left us, shadowed in a corridor of infinite length. At one end born from the hemorrhaging womb, at the other spitted for each other's pleasure. Take all you like. I am a feast of insecurities.
I was bountiful once. Cloaked in gilded robes of satin, lined with silver thread. I walked on soft carpets, drank from goblet bejewelled with emerald and amethyst. I lounged in the days or yore in perfumed parlors and throne rooms with tapestries depicting grand battles and grander rulers, gods among men. Like I was God among men. I was wealthy, powerful, beyond comprehension. Lesser creatures looked at me in awe and deferrence and I was their King. But that palace lies in shambles at your feet. I gave up, fell short, and turned away from light. Lucifer fell, and I fell farther.
I am here of my own volition, mourning something that was never real enough to wage war over. Grieving for a loss that does not grieve for me. Dead friends that were only imaginary, after all, and a lover pieced together from other lovers. I've spilled tears over the desiccated carcass of something forgotten in an instant by everyone but myself and I wonder if maybe the sentimentality of it all is overshadowed by how unyieldingly pathetic it is. Nevermind the self-deprecation, nevermind the weakness and the flaws. Forget whatever happens. Because none of it. None of you. None of me. Not a damn thing matters.
So here lies vengeance, and grief, and loss, and suffering and none of it means more than the letters cobbled together to spell the words. Here lies joy and love and happy thoughts and they mean nothing too. Its hollow when you're out in the gray. A shapeless, endless landscape of nothing. Shallow earth that covers mass graves with nothing buried and a translucent sky above. Nothing there. Nothing hidden, nothing to see. Nothing. And the best part? Nobody cares. Its a silent, lifeless existence that spans not ten years, or forty, or a hundred. It spans all the limitless corridors of Time. And then some. And not even God cares there.
So this isn't fun, it isn't witty or sing-songish. It isn't amusing in any way, because I am not amused. This is my unamused face. This is my unamused smirk, baring fangs to long withheld. This is my unamused heart, my unamused soul, my glorious, roiling rage bubbled up to the cusp and boiling over. This is me on the frayed edge of what's real and what's inconsequential. Problem is, who can tell which way I'm facing? Tell me there's a point to it all and I'll tell you that all the facets of my being are shaking their heads and laughing at how terribly wrong you are. We know the truth of it all. We know the pangs of hunger you'll begin to feel and the loss you'll share in someday. We sympathize, but we're vindictive. We're angry, distressed fatalists. And we will burn your cities down.
Carrion's left and the crows begin to circle. I'll push on because being determined is really all that's left. Words are of no use to me and feelings aren't concrete enough to live on. Maybe sometimes we need to live just to live. Sometimes we need to hear our own voices, because the voices that used to sound so sweet have spoiled in the sun. Its the way of all sweet things, to rot. Then you move on to something sweeter and it all starts again. On the other hand, I think decay has gotten something of a bad reputation. Its only natural, and the upkeep gets harder and harder until its gone. Then it seems worth it, but life doesn't give us second chances. One shot. And the world gets smaller.
I'm a fool, and that's the truth. So was the man who reached for the moon.
I wonder about the indiscernable truth of things. How infallible is love? Hate? Lies? Knowledge? God? Man? Is there really a point to questioning this or shall I simply let nature take its course and leave me, deposited like some old trash, on the river bank, sweeping on away and never answering my questions. Never deigning to speak with the likes of me. Some people are meant to give their all and then burn out, extinguished and extinct, mostly forgotten. When was the last time you saw a firefly? Same thing. All gone and no one remembers. Only the good die young, or so they say. But I think the longetivity of assholes should be called into question. Its easy enough to die. Being reborn is the hard part.
Facades and selfishness. You're all parasites and poison and, oh God, how I hate you. How I loathe that you can breathe while I cannot, eat while I starve, lust while I am dried to bones and dust. How I despise your eyes and lips and souls. Oh God, how I revile you.
I've said it all and said nothing. Its there for you to decipher. The riddles and the rules, the absurdism, the piping-hot wounds, layed open by blades unseen and miscreated. With all the humor of a back-alley abortion, it's there. Laid out on the page, tucked into a book, pressed onto a shelf beneath the endless array of cookbooks and self-help gurus. Placed in a safe place, a dark place where no one ever looks. Where you'll never look. I could give you a map and you'd never find it. So now I'm just wasting my breath. I always was persistent at the wrong times, and I'm sorry for that. Some flaws are just too great to overcome. Unfortunately, so are the rest of my flaws. Goodnight, Moon.
Just remember, when you think you're free...
Sincerely wasting away,
...
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