But I could climb on top of the hill where ruins of an old cathedral hide under the pristine woods, solemny pulsating holyness into the stars...I could climb there and sit under the dim moonlight and let my mind go wondering while caring the least about some dead gods imminence.
It's the ruins I'd be there for. The fact that they used to be awesome and huge and now they're just a memory of times long ago past and a memorial to our weaknesses we believe to be
powers. Hah, the innocent minds who glorify the mankind are blind to everything but crystal mirrors and everything shiny! And the shinyness has turned into black goo, which burns brightly with the human race, sadly disappearing long before as, I'm afraid.
And the paper that burns about as brightly.
Yes, lets all believe in the power of paper! That's what has made us powerful, mighty, more important and smarter and more clever and more godly than any other animal.
Cause some pieces of paper mean more than an innocent life ("hah, innocent", I can hear some of you saying (though it's more likely just my schizophrenic mind), "there's no such thing as innocent life!" Well, yes, nothing's pure and innocent for you any more.). More than thousands of lives. More important than life of those who have nothing anyway.
But those who have nothing have got so much more!
They HAVE innocence!
They have the eyes of the children, the mind of those not ruined by burning things, the SOUL of NATURE!
Feel ashamed as I do, when thinking about them!
We, the children of money, will never feel the freedom they have. Nor will we know what hunger means. What thirst means. What dying means.
Because, for us (and yes, I CAN'T exclude me and it should make me hate myself as much as others!), a cup of hot coffee in the morning means more than the future of millions.
The pride of being one of the comfort-people doesn't really make me feel very high about it all.
---And when I wake up in the morning, all of the nonexistent shinyness burns, all of it together and everybody who hold it dearer to them than other living beings with it.---
I want to bring oblivion and forgiveness to you all.
I want to be your shepherd with a shotgun but you'll never die and I'm shorter than any of the hills you feed on.
My oblivion brings nothing but shiny pearls of tears.
Tearing up a heart or two and bleeding all over the nature...
---And my sickle is sharp and warm in the dark forest and your screams only make the sacred grove more hungr---
---And knife in a boot is worth as much as a sickle in the night, if the blood is as thick and nutricious as it was when the forests were alive.---
I breathe slowly, staring at my wolven eyes that glow in the underbrush.
It's not a mirror.
I am me.
And you are me.
We're one, though I keep you in a leash, in the back yard of my mind, because you don't like warm coffee or the smell of a burning money.
---And the groves are calling for the one who heard them, heard them by accident, but who is strong and willing, but on a leash. Still, always on a leash. Until it manages to gnaw through the throat of it's keeper, making them both happy, happier than they're ever been, and warm and beautiful from the raw blood.---Call of the willing has begun.
But I wont go out tonight. Nor tomorrow.
I wont go on the hill to sit next to the old ruins.
But the hunt has begun and I can still hear it ring in the back of my brain when I believe that my beast on a leash is asleep.
---And the thick blood in the woods awaits for it's spiller.---
Do I ever dare to sleep or approach the sacred groves again when I might dream of nightmares? The sickle is buried, but not by those who made them.
Someone who dares can unearth them.
And after that...
is nothing.
Kommentaare ei ole:
Postita kommentaar