This post doesn’t have anything interesting in it, seriously – if you’re looking for something intelligent or insightful, or deep and philosophical, look elsewhere, my brain is out to lunch, and is probably getting horribly drunk on despair and agony, it’s latest ladies of ill-repute. As such, allow me to wax lyrical.
What a god awful period of time this has been in my life! Everything (and I do mean EVERYITHING ) has turned to crapola. There is much tumultuosity* in my life as nothing seems certain. As thunderous clouds bear ever-more loomingly large upon my horizon I wonder if everything I have done up until this point is truly worth it. How many times have I erred? How many times have I chosen the well-worn path in the hope that something different will come along. Am I not therefore mad? For is the definition of madness not to hope for a different outcome by repeating the same action?
Buggery blast and bombasity – things must change. Forsooth I swear and gangliouslisity** I decry to the world that things must and will change! Change I demand it! *sigh*Alas for what change forbears my existence upon the falling swallow of death dear light? For to change is to render the self un-loved, un-acknowledged and un-sung. The change required is one of the soul being blighted, to quest deep within the darkest reaches and head for the pale light of normality, to forsake sweet dreams of blue-bright electrons and the arcing pace of a story well told, to ignore the rapture of holding ones eager followers upon each lasting syllable. To change is to fade upon sorrows bitter ash, to release in anger the black eddy of honours friendship turned tarnished before failing to red rains of rust and a bitter swill to swallow.
Fate, my torturous handmaiden, guide me not foolishly into the bright light of corporate enslavement, give to me one last chance at being that which I dream, to soar above the others with delightful words that conjure to us the worlds of bygone times, and create that lasting blessing of escape and a belief in dreams!
Sorrow, my black soul-keeper, stay thy hand upon thy lash of cruelty and sickly black leash. But for a moment to relinquish your grip, and allow this beaten spirit to stand at least upon one knee, to rise again from the ashes of pain so long borne upon shoulders scarred with the sorrow of others. To harden the heart, one last time, so that the bitter, jaded soul, can rise to the dawning of a new hope – a new life – a new purpose.
And fie on Him who has so foully betrayed honour and forsaken brotherhood. A pox be upon his lasting days that none may ever relinquish. For he claims that the death of those without honour is an act of charity, but I am not a charitable man. So suffer Him unto pain and sorrow, let his times be hard, and his hopes wrecked as He would have mine smashed upon the jagged fiends of betrayal.
But what, oh what of sweet sanctuary forsaken? What of She who is, or was, or will be, or may be? What of She who is so filled with deepest despair of the darkest nature? What of anguish and anger and betrayal and death? What of shattered promises and broken dreams? What of this? What of us?
And in the morrow when dawn births a new day, how will this one rise to face it? When the morrow cries to all to awaken, how will this one look into the light? The burden of the godless is to have no greater force to curse for their pain, or beg for their succour. I am godless, by choice and act. I stare into the bright day and wish for a greatness that is not there, I suffer this pain and beg for a release to a greater creature than I, but deep within my breast beats a blackened heart of stone, that refuses to submit to a creature that cannot, will not, must not exist.
How the summer shines through her eyes. A world made right with her lovely smile. How can one so divine suffer such as a creature laid waste by the hand of a cruel man? Darkness eddies, light reveals, sorrow cries out in anger, for there will, there must be a purpose to all of this, none should suffer like this, and to rise again against the power that vainly forces us to our knees, we shall rise and defy and beg and berate, for we cannot be held down for all time. We shall rise, we shall survive, we shall prosper and we shall be, that, which we once wished to be, that, which we once prayed to be, that, which we once dreamt to be.
Er… yeah – not sure where that came from or why. Writing in catharsis I guess. Oh well…
* I’m allowed to make up words dammit.
** I don’t know what that made-up word means either…