It is that same optimistic pessimism. That ephemeral, translucent feeling..which gives me life and meaning. When taken to the extreme, the world becomes cold. Everything fades. Who I am ceases to be, and in my place, a force of absolute clarity emerges, in the realization that in the grand scheme, nothing matters.

I have witnessed this happen. I have watched myself die. Time and time again have I, sat back and wondered why it is that I cannot stop this sequence of events,
  from unfolding in front of me. When clarity strikes and I realize that the man I have been does not matter anymore, just as before,
I wonder,
Why?

I have talked to my fellow man on the subject. I have come to know their mannerisms, their discomforts, their quieted discussions hushed for fear that insanity looms, and I have grown to assume the worst of them..that in the end, most are blind to the truth of these deaths.

Subtle in nature and slow in their pace, these key moments race to define who we are by summarizing who we have been up to the point of contact with them. From that point of derision, a part of our life is forever etched in memory, wether we remember or not.

After a period of time, who we are can no longer be defined by any measure of who have been. We are a collection of key moments, fractures and schisms form the face for what we have become. In the end, a personality template, made whole by the mention of a few distant names, certain days are remembered forever, while others fade away into obscurity.

We are nothing but the deaths of who we once were, compounded from birth to keep us interesting.

It used to be that I could write of love when I knew you, but the truth is those feelings are gone. Long buried in years of hate, in a state I don’t understand. Without you by my side, I don’t know who I am. A god with no muse, now simply a man.

In all my hollow glory, I venerate your chapter in the story with such reverence. I remark on your commitment to togetherness with an asterisk, and leave a footnote in the margins that reads, “Meaningless.”

Forgive me for saying this, I’ve lost my way, clearly. Please, let me rephrase...

My dear angel, it’s been several years since a difference of opinion has left us divided. In all that time, I’ve decided to write you and say, I’m sorry for the way we ended. Far be it from me to build our love upon a foundation which was honesty dependent..I’ve learned the error of my ways.

Which is to say, that “I love you” has become a hollow thing, sweet to be sure, but a sweet nothing all the same. So I will remember you with nothing, and leave you on those words, I love you.

Simply,
A man.

Expectation is the enemy of perfection,
A natural expression of idle curiosity.
And I have felt that need **** me years ago,
For I am a poet, as a poet I am known.

And this carries with it a certain expectation,
Which over the years has slowly grown,
That my writing should progress into perfection,
And so, is no longer my own.

And there, a poet slowly dies. Crushed under the weight of their own self-criticism. The world has robbed them of a free-moving pen, by way of expectation.

The death of such a spirit, is both subtle and moving. A nexus for emotion sapped and stomped out to the beat of life, until there is nothing left but embers, and the words which can be gleaned from a heart weighed down by expectation.

Politics is the war of words, where conceit and defeat are closer linked than kin and ties of blood. To accept peace through understanding is the mark of both a fool and a king, who’s impact is long-lasting throughout the ages.

But why accept the calming touch of tranquility, when financially, a ****** victory is worth so much more? And so the words turn to weapons more fearsome than debate,
to the elated joy of generals separate from the populace.

Who have no stake in this to claim, other than placing food upon the tables of their families, remembering proudly the name of the man that came home changed from the war, that started over nothing more than words.

Don’t you understand? It spreads. It all spreads. Your head-poison becomes mine and I’ve already had you tell me you’re going to bite the bullet, swallow that pill, at least 3 times now. And every single time you always say the same thing. You stay because of me. Because despite all the bad, I just seem to persevere and you think that’s incredible. Well what if I told you that every emotion you’re feeling right now is something I’ve already felt? The pity, the uselessness, The entrapment, the self-loathing, the hatred. And I was so young...you don’t understand, I’ve already been there, and I’m still here. Now I’m not saying I don’t have scars. I do. I’ve told people several times that I’m supposed to be a counselor or a therapist professionally, but something pulls me away from that. It’s you. Under a different name, a different face, but it’s always still you. You keep trying to bite that bullet and expecting me to pull it out. But it leaves a wound that oozes your particular brand of head-poison, and I can only come in contact with that so many times before I start feeling the effects.

But my biggest fear is that I will do that to someone else. Leave them a part of me that weighs them down forever. One of my friends recently developed anxiety you know? And I suspect in no small part thanks to me. Judging, criticizing, because I can’t handle meeting you again. Another one needs to talk, but understands the way the poison spreads, and refuses to give me more. I don’t know what I can do. I want to help. If anyone, I want to help them most of all, but they refuse. And it’s all because you didn’t understand when to stop. Now someone who actually needs my help refuses to get it because they see the mark you’ve left over the years.

There he stood with sword in hand. Looking out over the fields. He walked among them, the long departed. Checking over armor for family crests. The wealthy nobles had paid good money to guide their spirits first. Of course, he knew this was pointless. Souls go when they please, and return all the same. The issue lies with those who do not understand they are dead, or those who refuse to. A phenomenon common on the fields of battles long passed. But that did not really interest him right now.

He was looking for a Regalian surcoat, a family of some note in the border lands between the two kingdoms of Erasta and Celune, the only one with any weight in the middle-ground game of royal politics as a matter of fact. The youngest son of house Regalia, Hensen, was due home from the ****** Fields days ago. Armed with the best weapons and armor a royal name could buy, and still sent to die all the same for the gain of his father. Not that it mattered, but that wasn’t his place to say.

He searched for some hours, scanning through the corpses until finally he broke concentration with a sigh and a smile.
“Ah, there you are!” quickly he moved the bodies of the dead around him in order to make some space, carefully inspecting each one for wounds as he did so.

He pulled out an ornate flask and a small hooded lantern with a gently burning candle from his bag. “Well Hensen, today’s your lucky day!” He turned to face the others around him, “Buuuuut..you!” he said, pointing a finger at one of the solders. “You’re quite a stiff looking fellow, but remarkably well preserved considering. You’ll do nicely.” With that, he began pouring out the contents of the flask in a circle around him. Taking special care not to splash Hensen as he did so. Once 3 full circles leading to and from Hensen had been made, he placed his lantern on the body he had noted.

Once he was sure those preparations were done correctly, he pulled a flute from his pack and began to play. The somber, eerie notes of the Taker’s song rang out soundly through the fields. And in a few moments time, seemed to be joined by voices unknown, keeping the tune. To the untrained ear, this chorus would appear to have no origin, but he knew better. And as the voices grew louder and louder with the song now rapid and thunderous in nature, he let the instrument loose from his lips and held his sword at the ready. Suddenly there, a spirit came, quick as a flash and gone again. And a moment later, a burning sensation. It made the first pass. Luckily, not fatal.

It came again a second time. Though now that he was expecting the attack, not fast enough. In an instant he turned and instinctively his blade had found a fatal resting place. With a horrified look, the spirit let out the word, “Taker…” and was gone in a blink. The body of the soldier it had once belonged to now drained entirely of what little color remained as he turned to face Hensen. “Right on que.” He said as the spirit of Hensen began to flutter in and out next to the body of the soldier. For a few minutes the voices continued to sing until eventually the song came to a quiet close. And with a start, The eyes of the soldier opened.

“Welcome back Sir Hensen of Regalia. We missed you.”

What’s yours is mine,
What’s mine is mine,
Peace of mind is hard to find,
So I will give it to you,
All so we can live.
No greater use am I,
Than so great a use as this.

But to some I am defined,
By that kind of trait,
And so many of them hide,
In such a loving place,
For it seems a heart so true and kind,
Is a rarer find these days,
But I like this heavy thing,
So I will hold the weight.

And every little sin,
Shall find a hold in me,
To you I welcome in,
Everything you’ve seen,
So sit beside and tell me now,
Of bitter life,
What’s got you down?

I will in time,
Take that too,
And leave behind,
Something new,
Peace of mind,
All for you,
And maybe I,
Will have some use.