| Mood:- |
Reliving the unbelievably cruel |
| Music:- |
Click-click-click... |
Is it possible that one may assimilate to a personality that is not their own, perhaps even fiction, perhaps even formerly overlooked by the very person who adopted it? Could it be... that I have become a character in a tale filled with magical despair?
If I have the intuitions of that blue-eyed boy, they are floundering now. These memories, once submerged, now resurfacing, are dragging their claws across the tattered landscape of my subconscious with a renewed gluttony. It must be now, in this anxious expanse of time, for once October falls into November I have passed the checkpoint. Then, I have won... that is, unless those sharp curved nails rip through their cage of flesh once more and transform my think-vessel into that of a monster. This happened before, it happened so suddenly and with such voracity, a raging fire that tore and tore and left barren what was once fruitful. I do not want to do this to you, to any of you. I do not want to leave you alone...
But how to defeat it? It seems that there is only solitude. This tunnel pulls me through it unwillingly, compressing my insides with a torturous crunching feeling. I cannot grasp at it, for it is fictional. Over and over again, this occurs. These dreams, these vicious reminiscences; I cannot calm them, cannot force them away. Life and its words become repetitious, each event a mere reflection of something that took place a long time ago. And the deeper I delve into the mysteries within and without my fragile, faltering frame, the closer I come to discovering that the wound is still there, is still soft, is still as purple and ugly as it was when it was made.
It is like the nostalgia plague. Nothing changes, everything stays the same. Evolution deceives us; only advances in technology are made. We have left our principles and morals to the dust, to the hungry moths, to the shadows and the corners. Why do we feel so destitute? This is why. We are characters in a novel. We are waiting for the destruction of all that we know as truth. Have we forgotten its value? Is it no longer a shimmering jewel, but an option, a choice that we prefer to ignore? What do we choose, then? Temporary joy?
I would like to experience some genuine happiness, the sort that destroys the memories permanently. I would like to experience something pure and unadulterated by the decay and disease that lurks in our current world. Would you help me make it? Would you take the chance to make something beautiful out of something carnivorous and false? |
