Awakening to a hue darkness knowable only to insomniacs and the criminally damned, I froze in terror and awe. This particular evil was palpable, known to me all too well by the innermost depths of my being. Confusion. Anger. Fear. Arousal. All the extremely titillating sensations people live for and die by. My convictions never stood a chance.
As a youth I was informed of the idea of bad, yet I only truly knew it to be true much later. As to how much further in the future, I can only surmise, as my soul struggles to grasp the very concept of being, let alone knows the meaning of existence—that is to say, time is to me as memory is to history, an ever-gone blip of washed away sand eroded away by the tides of what is, and unknowably what is not.
I fear the rain.
The way it gets in my hair, the way it washes into my eyes. No cleansing to be had (at least that im aware of) simply annoyance and pain, followed by sorrow. I don’t give a damn if the crops should die, let them wither that I won’t wince when the stormy seasons come. My suffering is enough to burn the world, for it has already burned me. In my sleep I silence the flames and rain as I drift slowly off into a sea of forgetfulness. Is this forgiveness or involuntary ignorance, a mercy or frailty, either of which may save or betray me.
I suppose I shall not know.
But, one thing is knowable, and indeed all the more lamentable; I’m weak. I curse the ground that bares me, I weep at the thought that others may care, let alone actually love me in any real sense. In fact, I often question deep down inside the makings of what even can be considered real, let alone is.
I suppose that’s just the shit of it then, eh? Damned if you do, and almost certainly damned if it is not, right? Right? Oh well, what’s the damn point.
If you need me, I’ll be in my lamentable grave rattling threats of happiness through shrieks of denial. I suppose I may be dead after all. Selah.
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