Diligo Est Voluntas

"Beauty is seen through different eyes at varying degrees, son,
whether it be in the soft skin of a women, the soft touch
of a breeze, the sun setting, the stars rising. Beauty is seen through
different eyes in varying degrees, it's up to you to find your own."
That was the last thing he said to me, that I remember. The seed that
 grew a revolution. Before it all came crashing down. It is the life I live.
 I exist between microprocessors, wrapped in wires constrained
by metal piping with a cross shoved down my throat spewing out words
of manmade morality and deities through empty spaces. Wisdom reflected
 in the blood dripping from the hands and feet, the forhead of a supposed manmade
miracle. The red words drip into the minds of politictians. A theocracy
 behind a veil of freedom.
 How did I fall from heaven and climb out of hell into existence?
 Father went to war when I was a child. Which war? I do not know.
War is war, death is death, murder is murder. He lost sight of the beauty
 he told me to look for. He was red, but not of wisdom or even fake wisdom. He
saw his own blood.
The letter came home bearing death was a shotgun to my head. The slug passed
through to the wall without a sound, without pain. I blinked and
moved on, with a cause. Children made fun of me. I was a mute, I was wierd.
 Thet pressured me and I fought back. The shell that tore through
the flesh that created me, tearing through me. The woman's soft touch
laughed and mocked me. The breeze froze me. The stars could not light the night enough
to see, and the sun left me. All that could guide me were the lights of
 aparments, occupied by the pointing and the laughing climbing on to their crosses as martyrs,
dieing slowly for only themselves.
 War came and went. Two deaths a day for a month straight. No names or photos,
just numbers. One and two fell on the first, three and four on the second and so on.
When would they stamp a number on my forehead next to the price tag and push me under?
I didn't know.
 Jobs came and went. Money piled up. Bosses looked down and screamed.
 Co-workers mocked me with the faces of children.
 I left. I arrived in India after traveling for several months, not finding
anything worth settling for. Asleep on the floor of a kindly old fatalist
that night I was bit by a cobra. Poison rushed through my body like heroin.
I dodged the bullet and drowned in nature's own wrath. I'd rather be a victim to the world
then those who graffti their undesrving names upon it anyway. But I awoke.
 Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. My brown eyes. Soft skin, with a soft
 breeze dancing between her lips. The sun set in her hair and stars rose in her eyes.
Was this beauty? It was love. The fatalist who gave me a home died that night,
leaving it to me, the only person to befriend him. I think his very beliefs and foundation died with him,
as the monotonous wiring, purple robes and gold crosses fell from me.
 Beauty was not in buildings, wealth, God or manmade material. It was in a simple woman, half a world away.

Reviews

[Latsyrk llorrac]

That... was really good. I don't really know what to say. Writing is definilitely your talent.