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.
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.
It was
Exhilarating.
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.
