To Be Empty.
by: epiphanies
There is a beauty in death, a beauty that I have never fallen short of appreciating. It is what has fostered my abilities, fed my establishments, warmed itself to every inch of every possible ally I could ever meet. All connections made, all losses suffered, all sins and all repentance- all made for the one beauty that I've appreciated since the age of delicacy, the age of four.
There is a moment when a life is lost that the eyes widen, whether awake or asleep. There is a final thud and an anti-climactic gasp for air. There is a look of surprise, often, and less often a look of relief, in the eyes of the cursed.
To be true to its beauty, death is something that cannot be falsified. True death can never been a lie, can never be acted. True death is something that only the dying experience, and only the observant respect. The observant, I, and few others. I, who does not quite enjoy the torture and cruelty as much as the exuberance of that beauty, arising slowly upon a cold and dark horizon. The beauty grows, stronger, more brilliantly, the closer death comes, and the most brilliant shine is of the unforgivable death. The passionate death. The dutiful, righteous, commendable death.
An old man's death.
Beauty, the beauty in death, has always been the most illuminating and satisfying rush for my personal gain. It is something that I have not often experienced since my change of heart, so to speak. The old man's death was not a source in me to gather guilt, but a source which there gathered a prolific and justifiable resentment. His death had been something long known to me as the epitome of halting beauty. For years, I had known this, and in one cracking, fleeting moment, it had passed. Passed, had my greatest illusion of pleasure. Passed, had the most radiant beauty ever experienced by my own senses. Passed, had the tired old man, once the greatest wizard to walk the globe. Passed was the beauty I had waited patiently for, fifteen years and beyond.
I will never find the beauty that compares with the light going out in that man's eyes. It is as if I have lost a part of myself- the will, the anticipation.
True death is something that only the dying experience, and only the observant respect. I spent my one moment of true, life-fulfilling ecstacy on the top of a tower which restrained me back from my prize, which had plummeted to the ground below. Quite gone, like the calm after a storm. Gone from my life, as a candle blown out by harsh and cackling winds.
The distant sound of the phoenix heralds my woes, and digs deeper my wounds. The old man's death had not, as I had always imagined, made me complete. It had made me empty.
end.