|
|
A thousand stories, left untold, is still a massacre...
When I was younger, a friend gave me that one piece of advice. And I have heard the same tale told a thousand different ways, each one as sorrowful and as truthful as the last, but I have never heard it told my way, my story.
Even now, after all these years, after the hour glass has tipped over time and time again, I still follow his advice. I know nothing of what had happened to him, and who he really was had left my memory. But those words, those sweet dew drops on a rose petal still haunt me, and I find myself irrevocably caught in their spidery web.
I could start it with "In the beginning...", but that is too bland, and moth eaten. "I was born...." is nice enough, but does not suit my taste. "My name is...", this is far too famous, and should only give me a restless start at night.
No, I think this tale should begin as it ends, no where. This brief writing shall pick up in the middle of time, and end no farther than it started. For, who can ever truly say they told the whole story? It is nothing more than a wavering illusion in the writers eyes, and I am no more the exception than Orwell or Tolkien.
Death comes often to those who wish it, and I am not above them. I would willingly throw myself into the very pits of Hell itself if it would end my suffering. But, alas and alack, it would not. My soul would continue on, seeking vengeance where none was deserved, and peace where hatred could only spring root. It has always been that way with me, and I shall always let it be so.
From my youngest thought, to my oldest cackle, I have differed from every other person alive. I would like to say I cared, but I don't. My difference has never mattered less to me. It is always others who have bothered about it. I was always the poor, little child who needed a helping hand, who everyone should tip toe on eggshells around, lest they hurt me. I just turned a blind eye to it all, and ignored everyone and everything all together.
Let them crunch by silently on ruined rice paper, I would not care, and still do not, in many ways. But, then again, I have the feeling that no one cares much any more at all. If I were to stop on the street, and cry one day, I do not think for the smallest moment that any one person would stop to see what was wrong. And I think that would turn sorrow to happiness in of itself.
Human company has bothered me, and I would rather like to think that it would all go away. But I know it won't. I have friends who do not, will not, allow this. They worry, but they do so needlessly. Even I must laugh at that. Someone in this world worries, and I turn a cold shoulder. What would the sane mind think? That I am insane, that my thinking is warped beyond the absolute normal output? That there is no hope left for me?
Personally, I don't care. Think what you may, quit reading, and continue on without me, but my soul will be content with the mere writing of this, so let yourself waver not. It is just the prattling of a dead person, who's lost voice has finally found release. Who's long past story is finally being told, even if it is nothing but a blank page of memory.
I have found, after trekking the world thrice over, and seeing everything thrice done thrice stupidly, that my memory is nothing more than a blank page. A page, once written on, should never, and truly can never, be read or written again. I can not remember what has come and gone, and nothing any one says or tells me can change that. I am a hollow shell, once flowing over with imagination and life, now in a drought, echoing with sorrow and strife.
I would wish it, beg it, plead it, that someone kill me now, but no hand reaches to push me down, only to pull me up. Maybe that is what is meant by humanity, that graceful hand that clasps mine so tightly that pain shoots up my arm, but still will not let go. Those are the eyes of hope I see, as I look upward, smiling sadly, tears streaming down my face, struggling to climb to the height an angels wings have declared I should stand. And that voice, thick and warm, is the voice of my old friend still, telling me always what I needed to hear.
It is that voice that changed my mind always when I was younger, and that is the voice that changes my ways now, even from beyond the earthly grave. For I visited that long forgotten friend not so long ago, and placed a teary eyed rose upon his stone grave. I had never even known him, never really laughed with him, until it was too late. Now I sit up night after night, talking to him, and enjoying long since passed conversations, and long since bad jokes.
This, and this alone, is what life and love is made up of. I do not wish to lose it now, no matter how hard I want to see him, no matter how badly I feel the need to be with him, we shall always be separate. Maybe that is the moral of this story, if there truly is any, never look a soft voice in the face blindly. Never glare when you should laugh.
I don't know, I could never find the meaning in anything, even myself, unless someone told me the answer. And, I guess that's what he did, he told me the answer. He showed me what I needed most when I needed it, and I was smart enough, desperate enough, to thank him, and understand.
A thousand stories, left untold, is still a massacre......
