Redentor
I can't bare to look at them: a herd of sheep roaming free within their fenced pasture; leisurely grazing enjoying their pretend liberty.
I am rage, the last expedient to your cruelty. Where my voice failed, my force will be a hurricane to carry the fragments of dead peace to your home, to your wife, to your children. And as you wallow in my destruction, i'll have my destruction delight in your peace.
The love is gone. The laughter is gone. There is no more crying or fighting--not even talking. But they will not find the courage, or even the desire, to leave--they may have they been younger or not been given the chance to become so integral in each other's daily living activities. Years and forever of an unspoken agreement of sharing loneliness.
Angry, he lifted boulder after boulder and cast them to the sea. One by one, they sent ripples as they sank. The waves scattered and gradually expanded as they approached the neighboring shores. Most of the children were playing by the shores that time and were the first ones struck; along with the beach houses. The water swept the seaside and lingered for some time. Some whirled through roads and found their way through small alleys where the cats and some poultry hid. A moment of calmness enveloped the villages. It was around noon that they retreated leaving a lot of things dead ashore and paved way for the screaming.
I fell in love with her that night. There was nothing so special about it--it was just something that needed to happen. To the dismay of poets, there were no fireworks or a great realization of life's potentials. On contrary, there was just me and her, by the beach as silent as the night approaching dawn. No words--just us sharing solitude. At one time my heart raced, though not out of excitement but of fear that it would end just as soon as the first light.
She went in there, armed with all the misguided thoughts she learned from school. She spoke of things that did not make sense but she did it so eloquently that everyone was amazed. She spat garbage after garbage and everyone picked them as if they were gold coins. She would go far, no doubt.
She gave me a vase. A china with intricate oriental designs she bought from some remote pottery village. It was supposedly a very thoughtful gesture--as she implied a few times already. But what am I supposed to do with it exactly? I never liked flowers.
I can't live underground anymore. Father lives here his whole life--and so did grandpa. Look at them. Look at their eyes--colorless and dead. I don't want to be like them. The streets are lit with illuminators and the phosphorescent plants are shining as bright as ever. But there's still this darkness that you can't shake off and it cocoons everyone. There is nothing like the sun. It's hope. I have to get out--and soon.
Do you believe in ghosts--or any incorporeal beings? I have never encountered one though I want to. I don't really think that I believe in them however. I guess I just want to believe they exist but can't convince myself they do--if that makes sense. I've never really thought about this much until now.
Is it the afternoon rain--
or has it always been like this?
I just had coffee--
maybe it was the coffee.
Probably the coffee.
How can everything familiar
suddenly look strange?
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