Your eyes are nothing for you

And then. Right this moment when you stand outside, on white yet dirty snow, upon you nothing but empty sky... Then you see, that your sky is filled with nothing. It's dark, cloudless and so alone. Yes, if you look closely, you see a star or two. Maybe even some more, but they're hidden inside this overwhelming emtiness which makes them look even sadder, even more alone, so alone that it hurts...

Because you KNOW. There's really nothing out there. So seemingly close, so near that you can almost touch it, almost feel the cold fire burning iside them... But you reach out your mind and try to grab them, but there is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for you to feel. If, then only the vague pain from the burn of the failure...

Because the stars in your sky are the stars of the future. One day you'll grow. Grow strong. Or stronger. Grow big. Grow to be yourself.

This real yourself you can't even see right now. Maybe feel a bit. Just sometimes, when you feel like you're not yourself... Those moment when you need to hug somebody, when you need to be a big happy tree that has stood on the same spot for several hundreds of years and you know that there's this little girl who comes to hug you every morning before going to school. But one day the girl wont come. You konw that. And that makes you want to cry those big silver tears of burning acid that makes your skin bleed and cry red tears of happiness.

And then you take the claws of your past and try to tear out your heart, but you fail. Fail because once, long ago - yesterday, tomorrow, months ago, right now, on this spring - you had to turn it to ice and the parts you left warm and red and fleshy turned to stone by themselves, so you had nothing left to melt the ice from your heart.

And then the ice and stone melted into one and shattered, leaving you only little sharp edges of something that used to be so dear, but when you look into your heart NOW... All you see is darkness and pale memories of black shadows of what used to be. So you can't tear out your heart. And it hurts more than tearing it out and burning would.

But you still press your nonexcisting claws into your chest, tearing out still living flesh and pouring salt onto the wounds and only laughing at the tears of pain.

Because you know that if you hurt for long enough, then the pain will go away and all that there will be left is a fading memory of something that might never even have been real.

So that all this pain would burn the soul into a dead wood, as a tree, rotting inside.

And then the laughter for tears will turn into tears of laughter, so that one day even YOU would believe that all your smiles are sincere and that all your lies are the truth.

For you have been forced to live only for yourself for so long that you've forgotten that others live as well. And if you notice their excistence, then you embrace their pain and welcome it into your soul, for it still fills the hole left inside you so long ago that the fact, that the hole is filled with burning corpses doesn't matter any more.

And in this future that is the only reason you live for, in this future nothing of this really matters.

But days - weeks, months, years, lives - before that you have to walk around, smiling with your fake sincerity, dead look in your eyes for those who dare to look closely enough. But noone ever does, for your smile, though so real, so happy, is still so wrong that they run away as soon as they can, without knowing what really bothers them...

And then you start to understand that all the truths you have told almost sincerely, wanting to believe that they're truths, though secretly knowing that they ARE lies, you DO start to understand that they ARE the real truths and that scares you so much that you don't know what to do and you want to run to the edge of the world, but there isn't one! There NEVER is. And there's no way out, no way in.


Once you've here, you're here, wihtout no exit but the one in too distant future that waits for you up there, glowing, shining, shimmering, waiting for you to get there to tell you then what it is. And all the time spent wondering before that is just a time WASTED. But you have no other choice.

You have to read all those pages without any text written on it to reach to the truth, to the solution, to the reason of this all, which might as well only be a single word, meaning nothing, but you have to read all these pages of plain white emptiness to reach to this page, that has something written on it, black on white, red on white, blood on white, TRUTH on white.

And truth usually has NOTHING to do with blood, but you neve know before you're there and when you're almost there, then you know that the smell of blood has got nothing to do with the sweet smell on flowers on a sunday morning on a summer just after a sunset nor with the scent of the sea after a storm and you can almost hear the seagulls screaming and the smile on your face is sincere after all those centuries, but it's too late for all that and you know that all this was just a waste of time.

What must come, must come.

But for that long... Your soul is just a blank page, white empty space, waiting for your soul to bleed black ink on it, to mark down the commandwords for your golem body, which you love for no reason at all.

And you'll NEVER understand just HOW important you are.

For everybody.