He looked disappointed at his paper. He felt the resentment
of days gone by, reasons and possibilities. He had thought he was one in a
million. He had thought she would come running and expected nothing in return.
Every slave came with a strong back and a work ethic. Had he known she would
have expected him to be her work horse? He would drive her up and down over the
hills and she would promise the machine would not break if the clutch was
moved.
Yet with his hand on her clit, she would move out of his
grasp, and everything that had driven him to that point would go with it. If
there was no woman waving a flag and calling him the winner of mankind’s race
then there was no point in continuing. The runners could pass him and he would
sit below a tree, looking at the black and white checkered pattern of defeat.
He was on trial for the death of religion and his father was
the judge.
He looked away into the heat and stars, into the spinning
wheels. Was he going to be forgotten after his death? Would his mother forgive
him, when she truly discovered who he was? Had he been living a lie for all
this time, calling himself a warrior who never gave up, to only end at what
should have been the beginning? The strange part of fate was never its
predicted events, but its discovery that deep in the ground water remained.
Would he love her still, after everything she had done to him? Would she be the
one that lived forever outside of him? There were no answers to these questions
as a broken heart only had the jagged pieces. Trapped in a box out of sight
with the jewelry, was what he could no longer imagine.
His soul was the link between heaven and hell, religion, God
and man. He could not die, he had a life, but the silence began to invade him
in thought. There was a world outside of him that didn’t want what he had to
offer. It was annoyed with his heart attacks, his twisted molds of logic, his
slave mentality, and they called him foolish for even caring. He was going into
his life alone, with words that had become used, dry, and brittle. They snapped
when he described his most intimate feelings. Soon enough those words would
become nothing but broken twigs, walked upon by everyone who traveled deep
enough to know him.
The worst enemy in life is myself he thought giddy,
with his world that was becoming smaller and smaller. “What a fine enemy self
hate creates, an unconquerable enemy, an unlovable enemy.” There was a victory
in his laugh as it twisted inside the waves of the horizon’s ocean. He was in
the rapids, being swept away by everything that came before and everything that
rained from the crystal white clouds. Did they hear him, the angles, the
demons, even God? The only type of pain was isolation, and yet isolation was
unknowable to those who never experienced it. Was he going to drown after he
had been swimming for so many years? The storm could kill him.
It is depth, he thought, that makes evil possible.
For if we were all flat cardboard figures with nothing but positive thoughts,
we would be too simple to understand and love, too simple to grasp tragedy and
life. We were meant to suffer to understand life, and yet despite how
powerful knowledge was, it could never feel anything. The great irony of life
was that in the escape of feelings was the knowledge that we could have done
things better, and yet knowledge was to indifferent to care that we killed for
it. Knowledge only cared about text books. To visual for its own sake it had no
agenda but to be used, and those that are used and abused often were
misunderstood.
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