Perspective and Precaution

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Follows the feelings of someone who holds their escape in the palm of their hand, as well as following their reflections on what they have become.

Submitted: September 03, 2012

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Submitted: September 03, 2012




There in my hand, a little black gem gleamed its secrets into my imagination, but was too thin of a concept to penetrate the iron bars around my mind. A solution, a wisp of hope that had wandered in thru a crack in the window of my somberly stiff pride, perched itself among the lines of my shaking palm. Winks of shine starred into the desperate eyes that had sunken back in retreat from this grotesque malformation called our society. 

The final soldier from the defeated army of my voice of reason bled his message into the crevices of my withered brain as he was overwhelmed with the pressure of opposing forces. His muted message heard, but never listened to though I had been listening intently for what seemed like a midnight’s eternity. His efforts unrecognized, his life a waste, his legacy forgotten before it began.

The rock screamed from its temporary home in the muted mouth of one whose mindfully sculpted words were met with the apathetic denial provided by decidedly deaf ears. Led by a surge of my dry mouth’s last salvages of saliva, the sparkling gem slipped down the throat that those I had trusted had long since slit, colliding with the lump that made its home there since the day I learned to think for myself.

Regret, perhaps, or maybe relief became the numbness that was the end. All was different. Better, maybe worse. I felt like nothing while simultaneously entertaining the sensation that I was like tepid water living in a smudged glass. Half full, maybe half empty.

 I was a white flag waving in the filthy air.

Enthralled, still, with tiny threads that made up my necessity to find peace, I coerced myself to follow against the command of an overwhelming desire to lead. Follow the example of those impressionable people who drove you to the center of humanity’s web in order to be harvested to feed an eternal hunger.

A drone I have become for the sake of preventing further ruin.

The practice of staying true to one’s self is plagued with the stress of being interpreted as taboo. Opinions, of those who remained shackled to walls of disapproval while bound by chains strong enough to trap thoughts and will, are regarded as mythical creatures with no reality in their blood.

There is no solution for brainwashed victims. Not even something that glimmered black with the temptation of salvation could pull us from this ever deepening hole. 

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