Does this scare you? Read this and tell me I could use the feedback...
I found this little tidbit of writing in my old school junk. I remember distinctly that this got me into trouble with an English teacher :rolleyes: . Although, at the time I meant what I was saying this is by NO means what I am feeling now. If you have or are going to read my "Final Journey" post, the same thing applies. Trust me, Im not going anywhere!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Faceless passerby,
This night I shall ask with tears in my eyes and wounds in my soul, for an angel to carry me into the life hereafter. This night, one like any other, is the night I choose to end my journey in this plane of existence. It is so sad that our lives can be over before they can begin, but sometimes the winds of fate blow us toward the stones, not out to the calming sea.
My love was to the last moment, in the hands of the mortal world. The colors of the rainbow in their varying hues, the sparkle of dew on the spring flowers, the river, speaking, singing the tales of nature will always be a part of my soul. I will hear the call of songbirds on my windowsill on a clear summer dawn. Her song like a teacher, a mentor, a stable foothold in a forever advancing and changing world. Her melodious songs of piece and happiness waking my soul in the frost of the winter morning, her laments of loves lost and lives destroyed leaving me with something to ponder after a restless summer night.
I write only by the light of the candle next to my bedstand. It is so full of magic. I am in awe of its power, its flame consuming the same life force as I. A confrontation it seems, though it is not. The candle gives me light in witch to see by and warmth in witch to live by. I in turn give the candle a place to grow, a place to exist. We share a bond, learning from each other on some level that no one can begin to comprehend.
It is hard to continue now. My eyes are crying endlessly in pain that I do not understand. My shoulders are touched now by the cool caress of deaths angel. I feel myself being drawn to it, the touch hitting every exposed cell, warming them to almost passionate comfort. I close my eyes and I see him behind, I see him in front. His traps can be seen, but I go closer to him anyway, almost as if I cannot exist without his touch. Only he can understand, only he can see my turmoil, only he can kill the demons haunting my dreams at night.
Why is he the only being in creation that can intervene in my behalf? Just as I ask myself this, the answer comes as a question in itself. Why does the candle burn?
My tears are wasted, wasted on frivolous things. No matter how much of my life is shed away onto the polished wood, the soft carpet or even the bathroom tile, my passing will only be met with thoughtless blame and soulless remorse. Oh, I can almost taste the anger behind the pointed fingers, “ It was my fault, No it was yours!” They will blame until their voices creak and strain, they will cry until their grief crushes them.
I do not deny the existence of those who are purely soulless. Bitterness and hate roll off their tongue as effortlessly as a song out of a bluebird’s beak. They find perverse joy in demeaning the souls of men who came before “Well she was a lawless whore, her passing was a blessing.”
Those who exist in constant denial, those who excuse their ill planed lies and thoughtless whims by saying the lord deemed them correct are the true assassins of the human spirit. “It was all a will of god.” How they lie, even to their face in the mirror, is something I wish never to understand. The existence is perverse enough.
I’ve felt all of these rumbles within me, acted on them. I wish I could exist on the fringes, not swim in the melting pot of blood and bile that is human error. The truth is I do, and to criticize these things without seeing and acknowledging that I to am human, would be an evil in itself.
I wished once when I was a small child, for a life I saw in a storybook. My pictures would be printed neatly, nothing outside the lines. My words would be typeset and easy to follow. My sentences would be proper and the lines evenly spaced. It would flow smoothly and come to a concise ending, leaving me full of knowledge and satisfied.
Seeing life though the eyes of a naive child, I would call myself a fool, but I know now I wasn’t.
Life in reality proved to be somewhat different. Life is a script, written in scribbles. There are no pictures to guide you and oftentimes, one cannot distinguish one sentence from another. It has no ending, it just loops around and around in perpetual motion. Life may be a fantasy, though it is rarely ever a storybook.
So much are we caught up in the clutches of perfection’s monstrous shadow, we miss life completely. Our friendships, our loves, our fears and innermost secrets toy ships in the ocean
So few notice these ships, and even fewer stay children long enough to play with them.
A child is born, a child will die, a child will gain knowledge, a child will loose innocence, all in the blink of an eye. Sometimes I think we blink far too often.
Eyes close, ears are shut. No longer the music speaking to us, calming and soothing. Rage consumes us now, and that is what a newborn child hears.
I do not feel rage, I do not feel anger, I do not feel hate. I feel pity, I feel remorse. My soul gone now, my heart broken, I can exist here no longer.
With a pen in my hand this cold night, I shall say goodbye to the world I loved once, I feared once, I understood once.
I was once a part of it, now I am just observing it.
Goodbye.
