What He said to me (repost)
I felt
the absence
of life
before
He
seeped
into
the room.
The light
of
this world
this sun
this sky
dimmed.
The warmth
of
this body
this heart
this hand
in yours
grew cold.
The love
I feel
remained
in me
in you
in this world
even as
I felt
his hand
take mine
from yours
wiping away
from this world
my world
our world
all that
was bad
with all
that was
good.
A voice
whispered
from the void
“Come. It is time.”
The Nightingale
It was a sweltering day in July when Heinrich was to be hanged. There was a large crowd as usual for spectacles like this. He searched the crowd for his love, Nicolette, a Countess, an alabaster goddess brought to life, with dark red curls like wine that sprung from her head and cascaded deliciously to her shoulders and her breasts.
She once had given him her ring as a symbol of her love, and he in turn had sworn to her his life and to serve her only. They would often meet at dusk under the linden trees to kiss. The nightingale was their only witness as it perched itself in the branches above and sang its lovers‘ song for just the two of them. Then one day they were caught holding hands by a servant to the Count. Heinrich was imprisoned, thrown into a darkened world of stone and iron from where he lamented at not knowing what became of Nicolette.
His attention fell on a blonde-haired boy with a mucus covered face. The boy looked directly at him while singing merrily through the din, a song the monks used to teach music to the peasant brood. The nitwit is a fool! He thought. But no more than I. And yet a fool for love is greater than the wisest with no knowledge of it. My love for Nicolette is worthy of my death, and I would die a thousand times if while I lived I could spend my nights drawing in her breath with every one of mine while we kissed under the linden tree.
At that moment he heard the order given and he was pulled off the ground by his neck. The noose burned hot like kiln stone as it ripped into his flesh. He flailed about for several moments until exhausted; then death, cumbrous and cold, crept up from his toes and fingertips. Slowly, it enveloped him. He felt its claws pierce his lungs then his heart, and draw a cloak of shifting colors down before his eyes. Gold like the sun. Red like the wine. Green like the field. Blue like the sky. Then all was black. Like the night when the nightingale had sung.
#literature #fiction #microfiction #tragedy #challenges #death
STRESSED ABOUT DEATH
Death, I think about it constantly and it terrifies me like nothing else. I have sinned so much; I would understand if the lord sent me to the pits of hell for the things I have done. Perhaps, he would forgive me, because he knows my heart and sees I’m just an innocent soul that allowed myself to be persuaded by wrong things? I would love to go to heaven and live in peace for the rest of my afterlife with Jesus and his angels, and death is the only way. I am willing to change just to be sure if I die I will be going to a better place instead of stressing about burning in hell.
A Letter to Death,
Death,
You cause sleep in your wake.
You leave us full of regrets and 'what-if’s'
Like, “Maybe if they hadn’t let them play outside…”
Or, “Should they have gone with him that night?”
Or, “I could have been just a bit more careful…”
Or, “If only this or that…”
You make us want to rewind time.
But, since we can’t, you make us curl up and cry, wishing to wake from the never-ending nightmare until we realize that there is actually absolutely nothing we can do.
Life goes on. You are inevitable.
Appearing again and again. Taking everyone around us one by one.
And, after we bury the bodies, or let them burn,
we can only pray the same isn’t happening to their souls.
Your coming is dreaded, but your ending is near.
You will be defeated in due time.
Mark my words.
Death, so often romanticized, is ugly when met.
Like all the best judges, it is objectively set.
All that we leave are echoes of our past
That cause pain to those that hear them and won't let them rest.
The cause, the hope and the peaceful rest.
All are lies, meant to subdue those of us that are left.
The only truth is the reality,
That without you in it, we all detest
Spin
You feel like there’s so much more to you than the current moment. There are so many other memories that compile into this beautiful and built up person. How dare this moment, and these people watching it, think they know a damn thing And you’re climbing and walking on a tight rope, you won’t stop spinning or dancing because you feel it’s the only way to get to make something that matters But now you know that their presence and knowledge was here all along. The only reason you crave and achieve any of this, is because you heard about it through them. The other. You will outdo the other, there’s no doubt that that’s the drug you live off of. A drug that only exists because of them. So why not give a smile, you think to yourself. Wouldn't that be the ultimate cool and above thing to do. Now you’re just smiling and spitting on anyone who would call something cool or above. Anything you come up with, you are above. Any time is can be descrbied by you, you are above it. Because you have this sense of you and other. And you are far above it.. Just to say something. The root of it. Stopping would mean that you’re satisfied with anything, that this is all good enough and it captures you. So you never stop spinning. You speak to make a point, and you know that point is not enough. And the drive was maybe invented by you, to simply have a drive. But you really are a pained soul, who knows that going back into the caves of relaxing is not relaxation at all. Maybe you pride yourself on that element too. You aren’t like the others. And you’re losing your spin because you’re looking around too much. Looking around at the still folks, real life people and the real world around you. Your mind can’t help but tear into the big stuff, the most important people and heartbreaks, and the cool ass moments that were a part of the heart breaks. Perhaps that inner thought is the ultimate bunker. The past life you lived that you think brings you to the elevated height of greatness. But then you look at these statements, you can sleep at night, knowintg that these statements aren’t all of you and there’s still more to dig into. You’ll have something to eat in the morning. Knowing that your words were missing at least .05% of you. And no one can see all of you, so they can’t critcise. Because they don’t know everything. But you also know that you have tried. To give all of you. And it’s not even that you’re so fucking tired. The description just doesn’t fall out of you the way it used to. Becaue the way it used to, was the creation. It was in-the-moment descriptions that you fully figured out pieces. Pieces were built during that process. And you’re always sitting and fiddling into how to recreate those, how to maximize. And then you look from above again, at all of it, and realize that you’re cooler and above all of the things you just defined. That's what was so easy about defining. That’s why you keep defining and making judgements on the current you. Because by stating it, you know you are above it. And don’t wonder what’s bringing you it. Don’t lose it. Says the spinning self. Which is really all of you. The fact that you’d even be able to conversations with other selves is an indicator that you’re not really spinning anymore. Don’t stop the show though. Half spin. And be embarrassed by the things you’re fascinated by. That’s the key. But don’t take pride in the embarrassment, don’t take pride in your ability to acknowledge embarasment too much. Always be on the cusp. Of finding it embarassing and being okay with it. The euphoria. The ability to look at what is other, and then feel like other doesn’t need to exist for you. Because you know it does, and you’re okay with that. But but but. Is it nice when you are so above it all, that it doesn’t exist. Then who are you asking this to? Are you satisfied with a conversation between you and you alone. You know the stupid needs and dumb time that the self must spend fulfilling and then dealing with these needs. The lucky soul who gets to hear and see you. Is not feeling like such a lucky person anymore. And you maybe want to fix that for them. For him. But then maybe this, this person you’re being, this person you really are, is all they really want. It should be anyways. Is it okay to put that on them? They asked for it, but they don't really know. But you can’t worry or wonder whether they’re right, really. You just have to give. In every occasion and situation that you’re in, give everything you can and everything you know. That’s all obvious. And you’re terrified as shit to wonder about the person here to take all of you. You’re terrified to be in some cliche state where it’s all okay, and assuming that they’d want all of this. The spinning of you cannot stop if they want any sort of taste. They want you to freeze, and you analyzing that action is just so damn depressing. So maybe you’ll never stop spinning and they’ll never really see you. And you’ll never really define who he is. And the other layer of thought that has pride and thinks of people reading this. Acknowledging that is probably the most embarrassing thing. So you never will fully acknowledge it. Or do you know all along that you’re giving people just enough. To see all the embarrassing things about you. Actually. If they try hard enough. You want praise, and that’s an unrelated thought here. And so what else are you really doing as you bring in unrelated thoughts. Keep spinning child. And think of him or don’t. Is it a reward or treat to think of him?? To think of him in the repetitive and conventional way you did earlier. Because those are the only places you’ll let yourself go. Ok, now no one is coming with me into this next part. It has to be alone. So i can really think of him. And yet i can’t. It’s all the same tidbits of information, it’s maybe my complaint. Because i can’t and won’t look over ther. And i’m making such a scene, i’m making it be the thing. That i just oh so badly can’t look. The typical tale. Is it just something to simply state that i’m looking at the flaws and the doubts in a way that i never have before? How juicy. They’ve mostly been stated. They look like conventional pieces of corporate america. Well worded doubts that have ground about topics that the american public could comprehend. But the real ones lie in a place that the self has never made words with. Maybet the self just thinks that it should have doubts, maybe the self knows nothing, has nothing to work off of and work with. Maybe that’s where the doubt lies the most. That i’m just making up this whole love story and tale with me and my person. The person fitting into this big slot of ‘my person’ that i’ve been creating since i was born, i have no solid arguments to present about why he’s right. I’m in a zone where i will just keep going. I will keep being involved because i can’t stop, i couldn’t not. And that’s all i can state verbatim. Electricity and any sort of acknowledgment feels like something i can’t grab at because it’s not here in the moment. I don’t feel rights to reliving it without him. I know he’d want me to. And then wouldn't, and he’d have a million other thoughts i couldn't think of or invent or predict. And so i can’t be anything with him when he’s not here. I can’t reminsic.e. if i do, it’s repetitive and used. Moving forward and spinning and blinded by lights when i stop and i can’t see a damn thing. And we must reflect on the moment. And roll into it. But he is so in it. In the spot, the non spot, the non place in my head that i will not look at. And let’s stop defining it as something we woudn’t look at. Take a face and scrub over there. And a pinch in the belly where i do worry that all this is too much for him. He’s tired. Is that even a real worry. I don’t want him to work for me. I want this to be his movements by choice. All i can do is sit here and count on the fact that are, and they will be. And if they aren’t, then we know what to do. There is nothin to for me to worry about as a me, i know how to do things without people. But there is the wonder that i’m no longer just a me anymore. Do i want it or is it real? an d it’s all work to say all of this. But it’s the only reward. It’s the only satisfaction in the world. The other needs of the world, the rewards of eating and sex, they leave yu unsatiafied. I want crave the wild notion that saini will satisfy me. And then what will we do, saini? What unthinkable things will you and i, these wicked people, do? We have no fucking idea. Can we just marvel at not knowing that, together? I really feel dumb or lame and repetitve about it. But with you there, i don’t.