Reflection_noitcelfeR

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
First story. Would appreciate comments. Not really a story more of a reflection of a story, meant to be vague and slightly dark.

Submitted: August 23, 2010

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Submitted: August 23, 2010

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Reflection
Running, I was running so fast. When will it end? Where will it lead? This treacherous path I so keenly travel upon. To know not the destination that I constantly seek, to what peril or preservation will it eventuate?
My past, so close behind, how could I have ever thought that I could run from it? Oh but if I had of just listened, listened and stayed. That sweet voice I might still hear, instead of the haunting echo it has become, in a life that is all but lost.
Sitting on a cold hard floor, what else is there for me to do but reflect, reflect upon a life, if that is what you wish to call space that is in between birth and this moment?  Although what else would you call it? Me, upon a reflection would think it a bitter cruel joke, Played upon by the higher might.
But I remember, oh how I remember now, though not so long ago, not long enough to have forgotten, When I had no doubt on the theories of life. How wonderful and joyous those days were. But how foolish and naive my view!
Life, it was not the period of time between birth and death, but a concept, a concept of fulfilment, where only happiness mattered and life was very black and white. How innocent! Oh how innocent.
My back aching, funny how it is the little thing that now hurt the most, though all the pain and agony suffered, it is the simple matter of poor posture that is now of which I complain. Is it because of the reminder of an age which I shall never become, or the realisation that I am already as broken as though I were of the age that I shall surely never see?
The reality is so slowly setting in, my mind drifting from thought to thought so clearly. Why should it be so that in all the pain I have already suffered that my fate should be to slowly rekindle all the dying flames of a life that cannot be said to have been lived?
From all the memories that now float by. All that is remains is a face, your sweet face. The face that has haunted all my wakened hours, and tortured all of my slumber! So this is my fate.
And to stare I will, though to scream your name I shall not, For though you haunt me by mine own deeds, at least this breath shall be mine, though your face may linger. I can now only welcome my fate, for into death, surely it can no longer reach.


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