Fifty-sixth Entry. All is as it should be.
07-31-2003 | 2:22 a.m.
The sixth and final installation of my late entries. There will be more sooner or later, but for now, this is it. Enjoy it!
Movable mountains of brown, dry sand scouring the Sahara Desert fade into the distant horizon beneath the beaming sun. A breeze rustles through the air and the scenery has shifted, but is still the same overall. The desert remains unchallenged...generally unchanged...semi-stolid in its dry, heated fever.
The room is dim but far from dark. A lamp stands tall in one corner with its purpose useless as the switch that acts as its tyrant...remains off. The greedy sunlight of early afternoon pours in through the two windows; the white walls reflecting the light and intensifying it just slightly so. The bed acts as a buoy in the center of the room, floating idly in the sea of carpet. It is a savior, a hero as a boy, 18, lays upon the firm mattress. The black sheet beneath him melting perfectly with the somber mood.
Silence. The deafening roar of silence. It is a powerful master holding full sway over its apathetic victim. The eyelids close and where there was a ceiling now lies a blanket of darkness so thick that not even a supernova could hope to penetrate its desolate fabric. It swirls and dances, shadows tilting and withdrawing upon chaotic whim. But seems this is but a prelude..an introduction to thoughts that are better left unthought..
He struggles. He chokes. The silent darkness employs the cruelest of tortures with its sadistic pleasures. Honesty. A vision where the soul was compromised to appease a hopeless fantasy of another. An image of a fist hurtling forward and the memory of pain without retaliation...fearing that more pain could be the only result. A thought of self-loathing. A feeling of disgust. A moment where only the truth exists.
A sudden shout that shatters the silence and annihilates the darkness...and rings aloud as a pleading scream of agony yearning for mercy, "I HATE MYSELF!"
In Paris, the pointed tip of the Eiffel Tower still pierces the belly of the sky, and the clouds bleed with the red essence of the sunset's light. The wound a long slice, a gaping slash in fluffy hues of red, orange, and pink. The rest of the day's skin a deepening blue or a darkening purple. The sun has been slain and now is the time for night.
Strangely though, this is as it should be. This is the end of every day. Nothing has changed. The is time in its endless continuity and the honesty of a single soul...has done nothing to alter it. All is still right with the world. Peace is hardy and wholesome. I digest it fully.
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Flashes of High School
Summer of Change
No Brass, No ammo
Lost in Translation
And that's that.
To write them.
Heart vs mind.