Disclaimer: I don't own them, I don't get money for this, just a strange
sense of contentment.
AN: "It is only in dreams, when we are alone, That the terror behind life Rises up from the depths." –Elizabeth Brewster
"Sing out, sing out, the dawn has come
Shadows have fled from the sun
Daylight shines on your free and easy mind
Darkness covers mine." -?
"Wherever you are you will carry always truth of the scars and the darkness of your faith." -?
I was in a dark mood- I decided to share.
Death
******************
The tears were still evident on her face when they found her body. Her eyes no longer wide with fear, but as dead as they had been minutes before she died. Her long blonde hair was encrusted with dirt and blood, tangled with pieces of stick and bits of leaf. There was a horror imprinted within her body that would never be allowed to heal.
I look on as her body is enveloped by the nondescript black bag that screams the word death. Maybe she was lucky, she has finally escaped life. She will never have to worry about pain, or sadness again. The living are the ones to be pitied, not the dead. The dead are finally free.
Every now and then we are all struck by out mortality, reminded with blinding clarity that we will one day be removed from consciousness by the oblivion of death. Should we weep for ourselves then, as we weep for the loss of those lost to us? As the sun shines, and birds sing? What makes our own demise so different from anyone else's. Maybe we should instead weep for our lives, for the fact that we awake every morning to witness 'reality,' and are forced to let the world take whatever they want from us.
Sometimes, I long to be them. Then I am reminded that what ever the end, someone else took her life from her. Whether it was for the best or a step toward the demise of humankind, she did not give her permission, it was stolen from her.
No one should be forced to live out someone else's dream of death. That is the crime. The injustice of it stirs me, my anger boiling to the surface. Call it what you will- passion, emotion…it all leads to the same thing. My drive to punish those that steal, without permission and without reward. To validate the lifeless bodies that clutter our soil. Whether they ever wanted validation or not. Justice for murder isn't any help for the dead, it's a vindication for those of us who survive that death. That doesn't make it wrong, it's simply my truth.
I wonder why my eyes die a little every day that I live. My body doesn't begin to compete with the death of my soul. Sometimes I wonder if my body will ever catch up.
For the time I will continue to fight for our peace of mind, removing one human threat at a time, as if that will slow death down.
In rare moments I worry that I am not like everyone else, that living life dead isn't healthy. The moment passes as I entertain the thought of ending my cardboard existence.
I shake my head clear of morbid notions as the others move towards me, putting on a face of normality and awareness. I wonder what they would think if they ever glimpsed the darkness that I shelter in my soul. I wonder if they could save me from myself, from life. I wonder if they would even try. I refuse to wonder. I simply move my lips into the symbol of happiness, acknowledging their shouts to my shell of a body.
"Sara!"
AN: "It is only in dreams, when we are alone, That the terror behind life Rises up from the depths." –Elizabeth Brewster
"Sing out, sing out, the dawn has come
Shadows have fled from the sun
Daylight shines on your free and easy mind
Darkness covers mine." -?
"Wherever you are you will carry always truth of the scars and the darkness of your faith." -?
I was in a dark mood- I decided to share.
Death
******************
The tears were still evident on her face when they found her body. Her eyes no longer wide with fear, but as dead as they had been minutes before she died. Her long blonde hair was encrusted with dirt and blood, tangled with pieces of stick and bits of leaf. There was a horror imprinted within her body that would never be allowed to heal.
I look on as her body is enveloped by the nondescript black bag that screams the word death. Maybe she was lucky, she has finally escaped life. She will never have to worry about pain, or sadness again. The living are the ones to be pitied, not the dead. The dead are finally free.
Every now and then we are all struck by out mortality, reminded with blinding clarity that we will one day be removed from consciousness by the oblivion of death. Should we weep for ourselves then, as we weep for the loss of those lost to us? As the sun shines, and birds sing? What makes our own demise so different from anyone else's. Maybe we should instead weep for our lives, for the fact that we awake every morning to witness 'reality,' and are forced to let the world take whatever they want from us.
Sometimes, I long to be them. Then I am reminded that what ever the end, someone else took her life from her. Whether it was for the best or a step toward the demise of humankind, she did not give her permission, it was stolen from her.
No one should be forced to live out someone else's dream of death. That is the crime. The injustice of it stirs me, my anger boiling to the surface. Call it what you will- passion, emotion…it all leads to the same thing. My drive to punish those that steal, without permission and without reward. To validate the lifeless bodies that clutter our soil. Whether they ever wanted validation or not. Justice for murder isn't any help for the dead, it's a vindication for those of us who survive that death. That doesn't make it wrong, it's simply my truth.
I wonder why my eyes die a little every day that I live. My body doesn't begin to compete with the death of my soul. Sometimes I wonder if my body will ever catch up.
For the time I will continue to fight for our peace of mind, removing one human threat at a time, as if that will slow death down.
In rare moments I worry that I am not like everyone else, that living life dead isn't healthy. The moment passes as I entertain the thought of ending my cardboard existence.
I shake my head clear of morbid notions as the others move towards me, putting on a face of normality and awareness. I wonder what they would think if they ever glimpsed the darkness that I shelter in my soul. I wonder if they could save me from myself, from life. I wonder if they would even try. I refuse to wonder. I simply move my lips into the symbol of happiness, acknowledging their shouts to my shell of a body.
"Sara!"
