I love how the bent branches of old trees touch the surface of the water. They leave traces which disappear as they move away. The water adjusts itself quickly and the ripples seize to exist. Rocks and boulders disturb water as well but somehow the mere subtleness of a branch forces me to stare. They somehow remind me of myself. I’m just a ripple which will disappear before anyone gets the time to notice or care.
I wonder, like many before me, whether anyone will care. I know the answer but for the sake of a moments ignorant bliss I let myself pretend. I feel ‘truth’ is an old whore. Every ones busy dressing her up so she looks presentable, even attractive. She dazzles and amazes. Every one’s willing to make love to her. She’s just an old whore to me.
So many people have died. People like you. People like me. There comes a point when one says to himself ‘what the hell is going on’. A time when lies are wrapped up in ribbons and delivered to your doorstep. All you have to do is keep your eyes closed and feed them to your brain. They taste great. So many people will never stop and say ‘hey! Wait a minute.’ A time when you feel like a soldier who doesn’t know the way to the battlefield. That time is here.
I sit and stare. The muscles of my tongue have grown stiff and cold. They’re dying. I don’t wish to save them. My replies merely consist of a nod of the head now. There is nothing to say. I only know how to be quietly angry now. Some things in life are so outrageous that one is forced into complete and utter silence. A disturbingly loud one. I hope no one can hear it.
I’m torn in two. God is out of thread.
