The darker the night the better, he always said to himself as he perched the steps overlooking the ruins of his world lost to an unsatisfied existance. It never did rain there. Nor did it snow or hail or issue even the slightest of winds to relieve him of the painted, poorly designed mural of this postcard town, back alley and forgotten by anything remotely cultural. Not that he asked for it. Now it would make no difference to him. Since the time has never been more than unchanging it should seem absolutley normal to pass every day with the speed of any second one might spend choking on an obscure chunk of hickory glazed animal byproducts. And why not? Since this day is a duplicate of the last and a stencil for the next it would be rather inconsequential to attempt a change of pace.
Refreshing, isnt it? To know that life never gets better than this. I say better without a firm grasp since I wouldnt define life as this snapshot of a harsh reality depicts it. More so does it depict death, as I see it. But who am I?
So he sits there smoking a cigarette in attempt to shorten his lifeline by inches at a time. It wouldnt work, but he doesnt know it. In fact, he should be so lucky. If anything, the sight of casual passerbyers and the occasional ambient lifeforms that maintain the ecosystem would be what kills him. Provided it is possible to die by means of boredom or disgust. Perhaps what is most disrupting to him is the fact that people seem to migrate to this pit of inhumane misery. As though the force of evil is so potent that it is able to blind everyone entering the vicinity and implant the feeling of comfort for moments long enough to convince the victim that this swamp of neverending pestilance is decidedly the location of their future domicile. There could be no other explanation. I mean, why subject ones self to such a fate? Could there be some desire that one acquires with age that actually finds necessity in bleakness and absence of motion? Honestly.
The ashes drop off naturally, by means of gravity, since he perched inert for so long that even the ants thought him to be a suitable trail. I do believe his eyes havent even refreshed in over an hour. A breath every 45 seconds. A thought every half.
This is the living end. There is no more than this out there.
Why wouldnt the moon stop in front of him? He watches it every night hoping that the laws of physics were merely a hoax and that this night wouldnt end. It is more pleasant when there is no light to see the details of this hand forged hell surrounding him. It is more pleasant when the casual passerbyers and ambient lifeforms are in their caves, away from him and silent as the windless night. Then he can revel in his own thoughts of a world unlike this one. There he can be lost in some distant hope that one day it would all be revealed as some sort of test, now complete. And he could return home where he has a family and a wife and a reason to open his eyes in the morning.
Prove to me that this impression is a fallacy. Please do correct me. Erase the reality. Close the gate and kill the guard. There is no hell then. Ive seen it crushed.
I watched him watch the moon. I understood his esoteric stare because Ive been there. Ive seen the rainless world and the windless days. I knew it as real as the blood I drew from my arm myself. It has an end. But it takes another to open the door. And Im not the one.
Refreshing, isnt it? To know that life never gets better than this. I say better without a firm grasp since I wouldnt define life as this snapshot of a harsh reality depicts it. More so does it depict death, as I see it. But who am I?
So he sits there smoking a cigarette in attempt to shorten his lifeline by inches at a time. It wouldnt work, but he doesnt know it. In fact, he should be so lucky. If anything, the sight of casual passerbyers and the occasional ambient lifeforms that maintain the ecosystem would be what kills him. Provided it is possible to die by means of boredom or disgust. Perhaps what is most disrupting to him is the fact that people seem to migrate to this pit of inhumane misery. As though the force of evil is so potent that it is able to blind everyone entering the vicinity and implant the feeling of comfort for moments long enough to convince the victim that this swamp of neverending pestilance is decidedly the location of their future domicile. There could be no other explanation. I mean, why subject ones self to such a fate? Could there be some desire that one acquires with age that actually finds necessity in bleakness and absence of motion? Honestly.
The ashes drop off naturally, by means of gravity, since he perched inert for so long that even the ants thought him to be a suitable trail. I do believe his eyes havent even refreshed in over an hour. A breath every 45 seconds. A thought every half.
This is the living end. There is no more than this out there.
Why wouldnt the moon stop in front of him? He watches it every night hoping that the laws of physics were merely a hoax and that this night wouldnt end. It is more pleasant when there is no light to see the details of this hand forged hell surrounding him. It is more pleasant when the casual passerbyers and ambient lifeforms are in their caves, away from him and silent as the windless night. Then he can revel in his own thoughts of a world unlike this one. There he can be lost in some distant hope that one day it would all be revealed as some sort of test, now complete. And he could return home where he has a family and a wife and a reason to open his eyes in the morning.
Prove to me that this impression is a fallacy. Please do correct me. Erase the reality. Close the gate and kill the guard. There is no hell then. Ive seen it crushed.
I watched him watch the moon. I understood his esoteric stare because Ive been there. Ive seen the rainless world and the windless days. I knew it as real as the blood I drew from my arm myself. It has an end. But it takes another to open the door. And Im not the one.
VIEW 15 of 15 COMMENTS
where ARE you?