“There is to me about this place a smell of rot, the smell of rot that ripe fruit makes. Nowhere, ever, have the hideous upheavals of life that the Greeks call miasma, defilement – been so brutal or been painted up to look so pretty; have many people put so much faith in lies and mutability and death death death.”
It was a day when the coldness and warmth of sun came wallowing into my thirsty soul. I dunno why I am so afraid to let anyone know who I was and where I was. In question of people loving me, there is no doubt that there are lots of them. There are lots of words to speak that I could speak, but words are locked out in my arcane sanctum. There are acts to be done that could be done but is left shackled brimming with blood.
“If I threw myself off, I thought, who would find me in all silence? Might the river beat me downstream over the rocks until it spat me out in the quiet waters? Or would I, like the pieces of Leo’s mandolin, lodge stubbornly in some quiet place behind a boulder and wait for spring?”
While my friends were in an unease state, I had myself crawling back to reality. 1, 4, 10, 15 or more calls and messages. While their concern flamed up, I had a burning sensation in the left corner of my chest. The more they show how they care, the more I am afraid to step out and tell what the real story is behind. I don’t wanna be the one being taken care of, because that is my responsibility in the first place. I don’t wanna be the burden my friends carry in times when they should be relaxing under the beaming past life of the stars.
“What we see is only a projection, beamed from a distance, light shining from a dead star.”
How can I tell a story that plays simultaneously in my mind and still gashes every nerve I have whenever I am trying to let them go? A story is supposed to be anything which has a beginning and an end. I don’t understand why it has to end when I am far from being just a character of a story and when in fact, I live in a world where there are millions of miracles happening within a second. Every minute of everyday seems to be a tragic yarn but I have to cover it all up with all those smiles. And if it’s a real story, why can’t it fade like a blue-ray disc played a hundred times a day? Where is glee? Why hasn’t it landed yet?
Or maybe I don’t have to tell my unsettling story in this soundless crowd. Either ways, no one would even understand.
“We are too afraid to surrender but yet make us feel more miserable than any other thing? But isn’t it also pain that often makes us most aware of self? It is a terrible thing to learn as a child that one is a being separate from all the world, that no one and nothing hurts along with one’s burned tongues and skinned knees, that one’s aches and pains are all one’s own. Even more terrible, as we grow older, to learn that no person, no matter how beloved, can ever truly understand us.”