|Favorite book:||Dean Koontz - Velocity & The long hard road out of hell - Marilyn Manson|
|Member Since:||May 9, 2008|
Me in metaphor:
A lone figure dressed in a soiled black robe standing on a hill top, his tattered and frayed black cloak blowing in the harsh winter wind. His eyes filled with anger and hatred a mask for the compassion, and caring he felt long ago but many a enemy and heart break has weathered his once soft and nurturing heart into a cold and lifeless black diamond now untouchable by either loves chisel or compassions hammer. A single tear escapes his eye as a fleeting memory of the one he once loved. The tear makes its desolate way down a cheek once wrinkled with smiles now only wrinkled by concentration of a kindred soul caught in the struggle of sanity. A tear escapes his cheek and falls alone to the ground like his soul thru the abyss called his life. He leans heavily on his weather beaten runic covered staff it has been thru many of life's battles with him, he has faced demons with nought but his simple staff as a weapon, he has faced his own mindly torments and anguish. He turns around facing the direction he came from the sun at his back throwing lengthened shadows in front of him covering his path in darkness, he looks up sighs deeply puts his head down and slowly walks towards the horizon. His tattered cloak wrapping around his feet but he doesnt notice this minority he is lost in the battle to keep his sanity. A gust of wind blows his sleeve up showing cuts overlapping cuts and burns tattooing his pale arm these are his only reminder of previous battles. He nears his humble aboud and walks in slowly, the wind follows him in it is the only guest who visits his solitary and disturbed existence anymore. There were others but alas they have long forgotten this lost cause of a soul now they are but fleeting memories in his losing battle of sanity. A sigh of defeat passes his pale blue lips as he slips into the trenches of depression once again and reaches for his comrade in this battle, a glint of steel escapes the window like a desperate plea for help but goes unanswered again. The cold feel of steel in his palm soothes the tumult in his mind slightly; steadying his hand for the task he must do and has done many a time when the battle is lost. A deep breathe he draws as the blade he draws across his arm, a crimson tear escapes the grim smile of the parted skin making its slow decent to the floor where upon it collapses and falls in upon itself, another and another repeat this process slowly spreading this red pool of ebbing life.
He closes his eyes and raises his head, a single tear creeps out the corner of his eye, an acknowledgement of his defeat in this battle for sanity. A knock at the door snaps him back to harsh reality, was it a trick of his heart, a longing for someone? The knock comes again and this time he knows its not an illusion, slowly the blood stained blade slips from his hand and clatters to floor as he makes his way to the door. Blood dropping to the floor with each step, each step more hesitant than the last. The closer he gets to the door the more distant the knocking gets, slowly he raises his blood covered hand and places it on the door handle. The knocking has ceased and he screams silently in anguish knowing he has no reality only an illusion that he lives. Nothing left to believe nothing left to hold onto but fading fragments of an angelic face, fading more each day the sun rises over the horizon tormenting in the knowledge that he faces yet another day in misery. Soon there will be nothing left of this soul that can be recognized as human. He returns to his chair -his throne- in this impenetrable stronghold encapsulating this condemned being. He sits watching dancing shadows thrown around by the fire; the fire has more life than this this forsaken being. His eyes drift off and watch the dancing shadows his mouth moving unseen but silently one word over and over, digging for answers and grasping only at air as he free falls more and more into insanity and despair the word finally passes his lips and the fire is his only audience and hears this word as it passes his pale lips. why he asks the licking flames as they consume another log the flames reply with a gentle roar, mocking his already endless torment
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