Mar 2014
I'll tell you a story instead.
Mind you, it's a short story and gets horribly dull at times.
It's about a boy. His name is irrelevant, because his true name was dreary, dull and quire big. So more often than he made friends, he assumed names. Slowly, burdened by the brunt of all that he was, he lost sense of who he truly was.
And then suddenly, the darkness grew tangible, swallowing him, churning everything positive into nothingness, extinguishing all the specks of light and hope he clung to, replacing it, replacing him with an abyss.
And then he was truly no longer the boy he was. To be honest, he wasn't even human anymore. Self pity stripped him of his conscience and his rage defiled his humanity. He was no more than a woven shadow, a psyche whose malicious intent was so honed that his character became a sharp blade of cold Stygian iron, forged to inflict misery.
And one night, the boy who was slumbering in the depths of the abyss woke up, to find himself alone on a hill of fresh corpses.
No more he swore.
In the name of those who suffered for the sins their race had committed, he swore that he'd change, he'd be the stranger who never stayed, an intercession in times of crisis, he'd become the boy who ran to save the lives he had no connection to.
But unfortunately, the dead told tales and the blood on his hands would never disappear. Even though he was there for people, few were there for him. And every time he lowered his defenses and allowed himself the luxury of a liaison, the world would cruelly remind him that he was merely to be tolerated. Cast out of the lives of the people he once thought he could love, he kept on running away. Imposing a self exile, he lost things that he could not even comprehend. And he's still running. Because humanity always tries to make good of its promises. Running and hoping that someday, he'd become a proper story.
Mind you, it's a short story and gets horribly dull at times.
It's about a boy. His name is irrelevant, because his true name was dreary, dull and quire big. So more often than he made friends, he assumed names. Slowly, burdened by the brunt of all that he was, he lost sense of who he truly was.
And then suddenly, the darkness grew tangible, swallowing him, churning everything positive into nothingness, extinguishing all the specks of light and hope he clung to, replacing it, replacing him with an abyss.
And then he was truly no longer the boy he was. To be honest, he wasn't even human anymore. Self pity stripped him of his conscience and his rage defiled his humanity. He was no more than a woven shadow, a psyche whose malicious intent was so honed that his character became a sharp blade of cold Stygian iron, forged to inflict misery.
And one night, the boy who was slumbering in the depths of the abyss woke up, to find himself alone on a hill of fresh corpses.
No more he swore.
In the name of those who suffered for the sins their race had committed, he swore that he'd change, he'd be the stranger who never stayed, an intercession in times of crisis, he'd become the boy who ran to save the lives he had no connection to.
But unfortunately, the dead told tales and the blood on his hands would never disappear. Even though he was there for people, few were there for him. And every time he lowered his defenses and allowed himself the luxury of a liaison, the world would cruelly remind him that he was merely to be tolerated. Cast out of the lives of the people he once thought he could love, he kept on running away. Imposing a self exile, he lost things that he could not even comprehend. And he's still running. Because humanity always tries to make good of its promises. Running and hoping that someday, he'd become a proper story.
