(PART 1: PREQUEL)
when i first started this whole process i
was an incoherently babbling proud idiot. i
was unsure and unconfident yet arrogant and
so proud i can hardly believe it now but
it doesn't really matter, does it, because people
learn from their mistakes.
it was relatively common for such a
babbling idiot as i to shield my mistakes and
delude myself and move on. yet that phrase,
'move on', is funny in the sense that it
suggests that it is alright to
thrive after death.
as stated above, i, along with the general
public engaged in the act of applying godknowshowmany
layers of makeup to shield
myself from the pain, because if you can't
see it you can't feel it,
and yes i was
acutely aware of my numerous faults yet so
proud so defensive so helplessly scared though
i wouldn't admit it (and that's another one of
them). i was stubborn and innocent
and I believed. that's what hurts the most.
i was fairly young. you could say
that though i was too desperate obnoxiously
self-centred and numb yes numb to
truly experience time- age was almost a
foreign concept to me.
and that was when i
started to merely exist i could not understand i
could not comprehend what the hell
living even was. that was around the
time i slipped away.
(PART 2: DYING)
i have to admit i had preconceived
notions about death in a way. i
did not believe in heaven and hell for such a divide
was incomprehensible. what was the
difference, really, between good and bad?
it was different like the colours were
different like brown was not green and black
was not white. yet what was the
difference that gave you the power the privilege
to sort between?
and none of us were that worthy it was
obvious glaringly obvious like black on
white like white on black. it hurt
to be told that you were unworthy yet
it was a simple truth.
and truth hurt and life hurt and
averageness hurt so much they were
glaringly obvious in their
presence and the same in their
absence and all i knew was that i
that confusion crept up like sneaky
thieves thrifty bastards damn it all the
black coils of memory swirling
around me until there was nothing but
dread and apprehension snaking creeping
sizing me up.
it seized me suddenly it was
swallowing me whole i didn't know
whether it was life or death or hell
i didn't know. there was nothing worse than it
tangling around me tangling
(there was nothing worse than me)
(PART 3: DEATH)
and that was how i came to
be where i am i don't know where
i don't know what they're doing i'm still
confused idontknowidontknow i
i did not come at the very
beginning. i was not there
when it first started. i was not
there when the voices first rose. the
pain i feel is not sudden it is slow
the pain i feel is gradual creeping like
understanding and wisdom and
comprehension. it is soft then louder
then louder i feel like my
eardrums will burst then i
remember i don't have any.
my lips are chapped and my
voice is uncertain hell every cell of
every tissue of every organ of me is screaming
with confusion. understanding is slow
but it comes yet comprehension is
what i ache for and what is yet to arrive.
i am a newbie they can see and
all of them they look at me yet
no-one helps i don't know why but
i think i know what i'm supposed to do.
yet knowledge is not enough. when i open
my mouth i only let out
a squeak. more than anything i am afraid.
(PART 4: LIFE)
the others do not look
at me at all yet i get the funny
feeling they're trying not to laugh.
i stand there (or do i i'm confused as
to what this whole death thing means)
and try not to cry.
and suddenly i both give
up and grasp it all- i don't need
to care nor want to care about
what they think this is not the place. i
don't even care what i think of
myself this is the place to just
and it doesn't matter whether you're
good or bad or right or wrong or insecure
or confident or malicious or kind or
gay or straight or even homophobic
because there's nothing that lingers
like unanswered questions and nothing that's
wiser than to let them go.
and so i stop and listen to what i've
been hearing all along. i'm not going
to delude myself tell myself that it's
not painful it makes my ears ache but
there's something refreshing about
the whiteness of pain.
and most of them are hardly
gifted musicians their croaky voices
are hardly blissful to hear. their ensemble
is a cacophony but hell, music is
overrated and there is something
comforting about the harmony.
it would be unwise and inaccurate to
describe it as shrieking or even
screaming because that suggests that
it is short-lived. it is not it is long
agonising excruciating it is forever.
i raise my voice my voice is immediately
surrounded by the others' wrapped in a
contorted melody it is absorbed by the sheer
energy of every single person (is it a person
or a ghost i still don't know how this
death thing works).
my voice is surrendered to the ongoing
(sound? music? noise?) and i scream for
my life my death myself. i feel further from yet
closer to myself than i have ever been. it is
less of forgetting than less acutely remembering and
this is when i give up pretending to be
anyone but myself.
(funny, that it is in death that i learn how to live.)
A/N: Wow. I really don't know where this came from.
But it took a loooong time, so be a really sweet reader and review.
(that's the guilt trip method)
(that's the awful-attempt-at-being-adorable method)
Oh, come on. You know you want to review.
It's what everyone does. Don't you want to be cool?
I admire you so much for actually making it through the whole super-long poem. You, my friend, are awesome. Why don't you just leave a teensy review so I can have a nice chat with you?
(that's the sucking-up-to-the-reader method. and also really creepy.)
If you don't review, some psycho stalker named Eggfart Dullen will DRINK YOUR BLOOD. MUAHAHA.
I'LL GIVE YOU A COOKIE!
And if none of those methods worked for you, I'm sure you appreciated my efforts anyway and so you'll review.
BYE AND HOOHOO TILL NEXT TIME