Monthly Archives: September 2012

Stone Cold

Stone fucking cold – an awareness that emanates from within. I’ve always believed the most grievous pain would come from what is held inside, from emotional wounds that take more than what forever is offering to heal; but no, I was wrong – the worst pain of all is being empty – drained, becoming a vacuous core, a dull resonating hollow that allows for nothing, not even the sting of its own frigid harshness.

What then remains?

The echo – that part remains. The thunderous slamming of logical thought, things I know to be true and by virtue of their own truth, to be right – just no longer right here.

The shadow – of what was conscious feeling, a memory… The memory of warmth, reaching out to it, grasping it; confusion at being sliced to ribbons on its brittle fractured edge, its tensile strength less than that of my own – for once I make contact with it, it can be nothing more than what I am; cold, empty, invisible, alone – the reality of full awareness.

The roar – perhaps the worst part of all, but no – the echo is the worst of it. Self-recrimination screaming in my head that this is my mind, my sacred territory, my imminent domain to control – well, my folly so it would seem.  Comical, though I have no laughter to spare it in this moment, the thought that my own strength of will, my conscious pattern of thought exerted under strict control for so long – what I consider to be my euphemistic beating heart – would never grow cold. The mocking echo is utterly relentless.

I am a creature of science, one who ascribes to chaos theory – in chaos there is random order to be found that given enough time becomes specified; thus specified random order within chaos. Some would argue the merit of this statement to be the antithesis of chaos itself, simply order if it is to be qualified as specific; and order is not chaos. But if chaos creates order, and order forms pattern, is it not then a foregone conclusion that the rigid stricture of order will in all occurrences destroy the fluidity of chaos thereby no longer allowing for the existence of the chaos that created the order that formed the pattern that left me stone fucking cold?

Well, that’s a tough one to answer. I’ll opt to believe in chaos, in the randomness of the order and the disorder that it also brings. I’ll choose to feel the nothing that gnaws a pit through my existence as there is something worth feeling the nothing for. What that something is – left undefined.

It’s something that was created by chaos, and is being consumed by the stricture of random structure. It is a string that unifies me with a plane that is a more desired reality, a place where warmth still exists… where an echo is to be feared no more than a comforting howl carried along with the breeze.

– oh, by the way, welcome to my happily never after.



All things born must eventually die, withering in decay. What is the value of living if there is no risk of loss? What is the joy to be gathered from the most beautiful smile if it might never fade? What is the ecstasy of being if not eventually to be undone?

There is still beauty in decay. Pain to be clutched, tears to be licked, madness to be grasped and devoured. All things with breath must twist in torment, scream in agony and pain, heave a final sigh when crushed below the heel of perfection.

A blossom that has bloomed must wilt. Laughter heard on the breeze fades to silence. Brightness tarnishes with time.

Time kills all things of beauty, time and the beauty that exists within it. Destiny sees to its demise. One thing certain in this found life, time will see it trampled to ruin.

But time does not bear all the blame. For time will only do with it what you will. When that time has been shattered, there is only one other to thank, and I thank this other fully. Knowing her like no other, wishing not to know her at all, living this life in a decrepit box, who else could be to blame? Yes, I speak of me.

My choices all, made with only one regret – time. A vicious circle, this I know as well. Disbelief, shocking pain, trembling in fear – broken, always broken, never unbroken.

I am to blame for all that has decayed, all I have allowed to wither, all I have wished for that has wilted – the blossom trampled before its time. Time’s accomplice truth; wielded as my weapon, held weak as my shield, ignorance in believing… but the believing of immeasurable worth, the cost: only yet one more piece torn away. I give it willingly; I cherish its meaning and cannot diminish its loss with regret.

Time I thought to lay the blame upon, but time was only doing its lot. I am all that is left to blame, so I thank myself for all that may have been lost.

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