I have a confession to make: I am not human. Not anymore. I havent felt human since the day I met you. And now this is all I have left of a bygone sentience; this spilling out of every little nothing I feel into powerless words when I remember all that you offered me, everything so potent, so visceral, so bloody. You are as mad as the madmen you keep reminding me of, flooding me with red-filtered images of men, women and children dressed in blood; of the everyday mob screaming in guttural voices over the gentle songs that we try to sing to probe our sanity, keep it a living thing. Because of you, I stopped caring. I cant even remember the exact minute I let go. Was it after you showed me the hanged men, with their tongues protruding from between their lips and you promised me that these men deserved it for all they did? You tell me theyre dead for a reason, and to understand that reason I need to hang these images on my wall, as if by just looking at them I could hang these men again and again, again and again until I forget the children and love the act. Or was it when you gave voice to the mob inside you, and urged me to retrieve my pitchfork and shout to the world that I dont want to see peace; I want to see death instead. Innocents or criminals, it doesnt matter because I want to see blood, and until I do so, I wont feel like I belong. So you keep the mob alive, and it kills the human I once was. The color black suits you well. You could say it is because you wish to show me that you care, but I know it is only a way for you to make an entrance. How else would you mask the red all over your once white skeleton?
Posted on: Sat, 20 Dec 2014 10:29:45 +0000
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