Just Another Bloody Reason

To drown in incessant fears…

I feel so old … yet I am so young, and each splitting moment boils within me like some traipsing disease, damned to crawl through my skin in the confinements of eternity, to walk a path bleeding of controversy in the dead of night, when nothing is astir but the anguished beating of my heart…

Why, I ask?

Is it too much to ask why society has turned a blind eye? Why we have beat and bludgeoned the very soul of the world, forced it to run, to hide and cower in the darkness of man’s insatiability and desire. Despite what Christian’s may say, there is no light in this darkness, for they themselves are victims to this pathetic quest for knowledge, the search for something greater, the hope of something more; a savior, a man who meets their every need, perfect in every way, like we’re supposed to be. But I say to you this; man is not made in “God’s” image. We’re not even a shadow. We believe what we want to believe, but it is hardly the truth, our minds drowning in a sea of impotence, giving in to things greater than ourselves in hopes of being deemed saintly. Of course we want to be like God. Who wouldn’t? But no, some human, some thousands of years ago, deciding that we " yes, the human race! " we were the creatures that most reflected the works of our Lord. By God, let my anger run its course. I don’t want to serve some boastful, self-centered deity. Satan is so much more realistic.

If this is your afterlife, if this is your eternity, then for heaven’s sake, leave me out of it.

I breathe a sigh of patience … much needed where I stand; institutions that are draining the life and creative essence out of my very fingers. As I sit here I feel it trickling, the life-giving liquid that energizes the heart, that keeps it beating through the night as I listen to the pain of screaming souls, tormented in fire and engulfed by shadows. I see them, I hear them, yet I cannot touch them; they are of another being entirely, and cannot hear my words. I feel my life slipping away, and in truth, the pain is welcoming … like a cold piece of glass run along decaying skin. Bliss as it may, to feel the giver of life, the true God, flow down your ever faithful body and back to the world from where it came from. For it is of the greatest gifts to see life in its most simplistic form, but also a great curse, one that you could not understand, being of the aforementioned.

To the question of school. Pathetic, mindless idiots, are they not? Of course, you wouldn’t know. You’re one of them. So absorbed in unrealistic ideology that they do not comprehend, and yet, the more they learn the stupider they become. To be told what to think! How horrible of a destiny, possibly worse that the physical malformations that plague the third worlds. The flesh is one thing, the mind another. It is a crime to confound the two, but you do it so easily, so redundantly that each time I see it, hear it, it is like another stab to my already dying soul. Self centered b******s, they care only for themselves. I try to tell them, but they must go on about how their life is so much worse, as if I am nothing, just another f*****g child with the rest. So no more speeches, no more lessons, no more tales, because I’m just a worthless b***h, as you can say without your words. Walking through hell is like a walk in the park. If only someone could understand. How can you love something if your heart knows so much anger? How can you go on in such unrelenting pain? Is your life is such a lie? Is there such thing as true happiness? Ha! I laugh in the face of purity. I do not remember the last time I was truly happy. All day, my whole existence, is spent longing to cry out, to scream bloody misery to those backstabbing animals. Can you hear it? It is the cry of the devil. He calls again. There is only so long I can keep him at bay.

I am ever thankful, because without pain, I would never see clearly this death-defying battleground of senses.

Pain. Loss. Betrayal. Dependence " you can’t learn from books. School can teach you about these things, those conniving professors. You can throw me a line of poetry, read me a little tale, show me a film on the Holocaust, but you will never know what true blood looks like, what is smells like, even what it feels like. I can describe it to you in a thousand ways, but in the end, it won’t matter. You’re still staring at the same blank expression. You’re still staring at words long lost out of time. I tell you, I have felt the true blood of the soul, I have felt the pit of the deepest betrayals, I have felt the tidings of passion manifested in oh so many ways, all without uttering a single, solitary word. No one will ever know what I have seen, because they have proven that they don’t care enough for me to trust their conscience. School has ruined me, but at the same time given me the greatest life imaginable. I know that ideas can change, a life be reborn, a person be altered in some divine, altruistic way. My life, compared to yours, is unimportant. I think, you don’t, and that makes me irrelevant to society. Congratulations on your success. Get out there, go to school, make lots of money, raise a family. That’s what they want you to do. Be like the masses. Be a working class hero. Be normal. I do not mean to boast, I do no think myself more important than any other. Each life is valued the same. I just wish you could understand, for once … not everything is what it appears to be.

I am but a timpani untuned in an orchestra.