The moon was shining bright. A hand raised from the cemetery. On the night of the walking dead, I heard a knocking
on my door.
It was a
zombie. A macabre resurrection. Just a shadow of what it used to be.
Swallowing
my utter panic, I embraced it, in hopes that time would guide the way out of
the horror and that cheap Stephen King movie would turn into a mild romantic
comedy.
Instead, I
was sent to outer space.
Gasping for
oxygen outside the atmosphere, I became the lost space man, as the Earth posed
as the long lost past, forming an ironically harmonic mix of messy, uneven,
heterogenic, but beautiful pieces. A home, slowly fading in the darkness of my
vision turning black as I lost my consciousness.
For the
first time, it looked beautiful.
Sometimes,
I guess, things only make sense when gazed at from a great
distance – so great that it is out of reach, for good.
Still, I
held hands with the firmest grip my strength would be able to, and, at the same
time, played every symphony, just to grow awareness of my feelings, of what I
was, of all I had to offer.
To no
avail.
I was
drowning in that infected love.
My soul was
tainted by that infected love.
On a last,
desperate endeavour to heal the infection, we adventured into the wilderness of
the concrete jungles.
And that,
my friend, was my last, most enduring mistake.
Among
violent punches on the core of my self-esteem, I was sent to nowhere in sight.
That is
when I found myself trapped on a time bubble that took me to one's glorious
past I had a fairly little knowledge about.
A past with
candies and fresh young blood galore. With no inch left to explore.
A past
where the beauty flowed freely like a soft silk veil, caressing the nude bodies
of the nameless youth, the young rebels, another troupe of extremists.
A past
where I did not still exist... Framed on this present time, where I -- I no
longer existed.
So I fled
to the daughter's room, where the silence meets the deepest darkness.
Where I
could hide from the voracious monsters haunting along and weep in peace.
My temple
to keep distance from the Great Wall and its heartbreaking sight.
In there, I
– at long last, for the first time – found the meaning of every song, of every
teardrop, of every cry I ever heard in the height of my lukewarm empathy, of my
immature and selfish way of caring of others.
I felt
vulnerable and human, once again.
And as if
my past had finally declared war, all the pain and suffering I may have caused
seemed to be bouncing back in the bloodiest vendetta.
You were the lieutenant of the infantry. The
bullets you fired were hitting me in the very core.
In the
daughter's room I agonized, dying not by the blood running out my body, but by
the hope vaporing out of my spirit.
Your love did not find me in the daughter's
room.
I have seen your love is now strolling around
the Dark Velvet Feral Art Gallery.
Your love has long left me.
I fled from this
infected love you gave me.
Whilst
rushing back home, all I saw was complete emptiness after a soft fog of the
saddest grey.
In the
alley of the unspoken words, deep in my undergrounds, there were just corpses
and drunken men, gazing into the darkness, finding no point in any further movement, overpowered by the misery.
Their eyes
contemplated the infiniteness of the nothing.
All the
screams inside were promptly silenced; for nothing made sense; for it was all
void; it was all gone, with my appetite.
My feelings
twirl and tangle, making a million knots in my heartstrings, so that I can’t
quite tell anything apart.
Is it envy for the glory or love for the
glorious?
Is it your presence or your absence?
I can't see
any answers, I can’t see any reasoning.
I left the battle for good.
x