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I once had a great friend in my childhood years
Back when my world was two blocks wide
A wise owl, hulled in a cloak of gray feathers
Tainted innocence that once shone like snow.
One day, she called me to meet her again,
But all that I could find was a dying bird,
A being closer to death than life itself.
A friend that had only one last wish.
To share her conscience.
To preserve her knowledge.
I foolishly accepted her humble request,
Fully aware of the consequences it brought,
Foolishly waiting to carry her learnings in me,
But shocked to received far more than knowledge.
Realization is a funny thing.
For some, it is power or fulfillment.
But if ignorance is bliss,
Then I have been cursed.
I never played much before,
Until I was given a blade,
Playing the knife game every day,
To feel the cool edge inside my skin.
Like the sound of breaking bones,
Noise that invades my mind,
Like a broken record,
Screaming out its elegy.
I have been smothered.
Between the weight of living
And the weight of realization.
Realization is not a destination.
Realization is the end.
And beyond that
There's no beginning.
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