Replenish (a confession of sorts)

Part of me sees death as a means to escape. Its hard not to think of it at times. I'd be lying if I said it didn't worry me. But there's nothing to assure me from an escape from duality. Least not freedom from the persona I despise. Why would I kill off the little breath of life I have?

Ive been watching you from afar. I see how you lie. I see how he creeps and crawls into your skin. He's just like me. And your just like her. You could drink life away. What a waste. You live in your lies, you speak like a breathless ghost; like some dead girl. What a waste. I cant keep from watching, but I cant get to close, I'm too fond of you.

I'm too fond of you and that scares me. It reminds me of a dead grey winter, where my words would build altars to false gods, constructs to enclose any life from shining light. I wonder if those constructs disappeared, I wonder if I would stop replaying all those failures. All those memories. Unresolved passions and wounds that make me feel cheap. Make me feel hollow.

Sometimes when I am laying in that hollowness, looking into the darkness, other memories come floating to me. A dear friend would sit with me. He'd speak to me, while I was blurry and teary, the only thing I could see was the candle light and the only thing I could hear was his voice deep in the music. Dear God it was romantic. My mind was afire with bright light, electricity ran though those thought highways, illuminting long forgotten habitats and glassgolden cities. Yeah, they were covered in dust, but by God, how did they shine! I tell you the truth, we are the Kingdom that the Great King is seeking. Oh how rich that kingdom will be.

And I get lost in the dabble of the world. The White Coated Torchbearer is overshadowed by some dark, hollow-eyed fool. He sulks around and drags his feet. The label of a deadweight, deathspeaker haunts me. It wasn't cascadence she heard when I spoke, it was the slug-speak of a fearful man. The White Coated man in me questions the authority given to make such accusations. On what grounds are the word deadweight eternal? And do I hold onto that word in at attempt to revive some old sick compassion?

And my compassion? Where did  it flee to? The reason I know these men of thorns, the reasons I hum with these criminals. What is it for, If I lack compassion. It has become cold and intellectual and lust is riding on the edges and crevices of these constructs, waiting to demolish me. Self-glorification has set its golden hand on my shoulder, whispering of beauty in self-destruction. How dark and demented these voices are. How hollow is there tone, but they beat upon my heart and resound within the rest of my being. As their mallet hits my heart, my vision blurs and I am cold and numb.



I want to call out.
I want help.
And no, I don't want your sickness. Not in the least, I can't escape from this pain your way, I've seen the results and they're disgusting. I'm tired of elderly pride. I'm tired of my pride. I'm tired of getting in the way of brother-king destroying that masochistic-consistency.

I'm tired. And I know something pure and sweet is out there.

Maybe I should lay down at buruchaperu. Maybe they really do know the sweet song.
Maybe that re-dispensation of gravity won't cut me up like that wolf is saying.


I need my mind back. I need to be replenished.
Vous Etes Mon Coure