Some people say that it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all—sometimes I wonder if those people have ever really loved. As the sun casts down from this insipid sky, the tables often turn, and what if the only reason I was put here was for you: to serve you, to protect you, to love you undying. The blank stone, the cobbled earth, ruins scribbled out in mysterious shapes and letters; messy scratch that once meant something—all signifying you. It burns me. As the fireflies dance, their tiny, flickering lights remind me of our last moments as real people. Soft and dim, small and innocent, uncaring as to anything other than the truth. Remember when we used to howl like mad dogs under fake moonlight, leaping and bounding through sleet and snow. Not even the souls of the dead could keep up with us. All I would say is “have no fear my dear, we have nothing more to hide” and we let the world embrace us. Every single inch of us. The infusion of yellow, orange, and red of twilight created such an infectious bite that we couldn’t resist dancing into nonexistence as the weight of the world came crashing down like the forceful waves that slowly swallowed the city, our city. A city of gold so bright that it almost outshined even you. “Endlessly,” she said, with horrible sounds as we held hands and spent our last night on earth. Bleeding black into the already soaked ground, the already dying leaves decomposing into the earth like our bodies will soon be doing. Refurbishing life, a never-ending cycle. “Endlessly,” she said. Like the stones at the bottom of a river, the city that we fell in love with will follow—we will follow. The smell of burning is everywhere. As days pass, my life is on hold. There is no time to breathe. I’ve found salvation carved into the trunk of a tree that’s dripping with the vile aftermath of defeat. There are no flowers, not this time. The ego of a shattered boy does sit, dark beneath the bleeding sky, speckled with the turning of foliage raining down as they scratch irony into the dirt. “Endlessly,” she said.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
You're Like the Sun, and I'm More Like the Moon
When you say forever, how hard was it to swallow your hope. Charcoal drawings lace clouds and create endless flocks of migrating birds, spelling out the perfect reason why we are ready and willing to fall. I speculate if they are heading in the right direction, north or south, and if they know what's best. I wonder if we could learn a lesson from the natural, intertwined thoughts that these thousands of paper birds have embedded in their everlasting minds. Oh, you're just like the Sun, and I'm more like the Moon. How can the Sun and the Moon coexist if they are never visually in the sky at the same time? Sharing space, thoughts, and memories—existential lovers with a burning foundation. A crumbling foundation. Cracking like the decaying wood riddled with millions of termites, termites that have taken over. The imperfections of your cratered, burning body show how even the most necessary entities somehow lose their hope along the long path to victory. Burning so hot that no man, or heavenly body, can begin to touch. You, Sun, are more needed than the silly old Moon. The human race relies on you and fears your departure, plunging planet Earth into abiding darkness that will last for eternity. And when you burn out, what will I do? Who will take my place when I get tired? You make me shine, and without you, it will almost be as if I am burning out as well. The only solution: We must burn out together. Selfish, but the human race hasn't exactly been the most charitable. There's nothing left to hide. Stay, burn a hole that will shatter the Earth.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Prolonged Life Incorporates Deceit
Dear Future,
When I sent my letter for acceptance through the lengthy process that we call life—a job, a family, a car, and a home—I own the rights, and I can decide on the good, the bad, and the ugly. I have that privilege. I have enough power in these boney fingers to conceive the outcome of any just situation. I am the savior, the follower, and the martyr of my life and everything that flows along this rushing river. Over paved roads flattened by fossil fuel powered monsters, through concrete jungles laced with filth and poverty and chaos, deeply embedded in vanishing forests with overlapping trees that stretch all the way into the sky. Trees so high they almost block out the sun. This is the future. I have no chance to get away, not until this empty, stereotypical void is filled; the void that beckons humanity to come. Come, come, and dance with disaster. Dance the dance of life that will slowly, but surely, destroy us all. Send us into complete oblivion. Earth, sun, moon, I’m sorry that we are not cooperating. We never will. We are too bigheaded with the thought that we can accomplish anything and everything and rule with an iron fist. The human race is a fragile thing. The body human, itself, is fragile. Please, Future. Save yourself. As for me, I am going to hibernate until the sun burns a hole right through this planet. Oh, gravity, you’ve held me down for far too long.
Sincerely,
(Your name here.)
