What we became?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Short overview of my look upon the world today.

Submitted: August 04, 2012

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Submitted: August 04, 2012

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Of remedy many have spoken … as if we, as we are, deserve so. Bathing in the filth of the world that we had ashamed, of the gods we’ve created and mocked upon … of civilizations that rot in tainted peace, waiting for yet another day they will not survive. Barely a dawn rises without the blood being spilled … and the anthem of our endings begins. Savaged like a dogs before the end, we walk our paths unseen, straying every little … sadness is overwhelming.

To whom should I swear the image of impartial vow when no one wishes to know? To whom to tell whether I am abducted by his intuition or drown away by his stupidity when no one wishes the truth? The world bathes in simplicity of anger, hatred and agony we all devour. We escape from reality … rarely even living in it, for we cannot comprehend what we became. Endless row of sad eyes, cheering lips that are dry and the voices broken as the glass of wine … every remedy we have ever known is out of reach. Beware of those who speak the language of the serpent; the hisses and whisper so silent that even the clearest cannot hear them. Dreams are faithful, but thrown away. What we were as children – no longer we are.

We’ve forgotten what made us who we are … who we were … what tempted us when we saw the sun blazing high or our mother’s tears. Was it by chance that we were born in denial of everything that’s around us? Was it by chance or by randomness of the world that we discovered pain too soon? No! Scars never heal, but wounds do. Scars never hurt … but wounds do. They will perish from our memories much alike the ashes on the wind – but we will never see. Clung onto the last stroke of faith, we live inexplicable ways … haunted by our own nether wraiths, sent into nocturnal abyss to forever dwell amidst the oases of pain, the virtues of forgotten. Man does not fall unless he’s stung by the image of one’s beloved end. Woman does not cry unless she feels mortality at the reach; we do not ever perish but when we lean beneath the ground and kiss our own death. We look upon death as if it is a curse, not a relentless friend. We look upon it as if the whole world envies us for we are still alive. The death is release for our brooding darkness within … our eyes that see only the pain in the others and the happiness of our own.

How can I look upon the world and not either cry or smile? How can I say I enjoy being part of the world where hunger is differed from its true meaning? Where hunger reclaims the power and those who are truly hungry die? Where was that flame of friendship and bonding they have spoken of? How can we smile knowing that the world hates us? That the world hates itself? The tears fall as the waterfall down the cliff, for we are far beyond salvation. Redemption is our cause and goal but we follow not that path.

No living thing ever learns to survive on its own; we are all bound to someone else, someone who will keep us breathing until we can understand. Our virtues are blackening and our dreams darkening … our nightmares are becoming our reality and our fears are breathing. Our hearts are cold as the ice and our fists as ready as the sun before the sunrise. We fight for our own survival as it will lead to the worlds’ own. Infinity is what we seek – the very idea of immortality removes the foundations of one’s being, driving him into despair and beyond. Death is the greater nemesis to some, and yet the greatest friend to the rest. Such difference is outspoken; we all have the power, whether we’re weak or strong, smart or less smart – we all have the power to change our lives to what we ought to believe they will be. But we don’t see the threading path before us, one that leads us far away from this darkness and despair.

One’s burdens should be the burdens of the rest; but, in the days where we no longer recognize the friend from foe, burdens of the rest are put upon the few. Some find a way to fight their insanity, but some bow before its masterful mind. Insanity is a friend of strong, but enemy of the weak – and the strong ones are long gone from this world. We believe everything we hear as if it spoken by our very creation. We ought not to dismiss our minds for a moment, try to comprehend the insanity that’s beneath the layers of lies … it is all wicked mountain of the layers and layers of our despair. If one brick is to fall out, the whole world would collapse as if it never existed. Mothers are abandoning their children … fathers getting drunk from day into the night, trying to find the world’s misery – but we all fall unto the fear at last – thus, we are bound to insanity. Alas the heroes of the ancient, those who fought for us – so that we can have the lives they never could … they cry as they see the world they died for. They cry as they see the hearts that had lived on them – they cry for they know everything is futile … dynamite of the end is lit up … it’s ticking to our end … slowly … but vastly. The greatest enemy of a human is a human itself – not the plague of the nature, not the catastrophes struck upon us, not the ghosts or the gods … we are our greatest enemy. Years and years will pass before we see it – before we admit it. But, then, it will be far too late – for every day, as we breathe, we fall deeper and deeper into the abyss filled with flaming bars – chaining ourselves to the mortal flesh, as if it will last forever.

“The life is but a futile poem” he said “It is mostly short but inspiring … it begins with laughter, and ends with the tears. None shall escape it.”


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