Tuesday, March 11. 2008
Dragons are sleeping underneath the mountains in the leaves buried above sand and oil, in their restless dreams they influence us with their arrogance and superiority. Precious few are the souls who can reject what teachings the creatures impart, fewer still are those who can mould the waking dreams to their own will, rarest is the one who can wake them up.
There are fairies leaping between the shadows of petals on the plant, hanging jewels so fine they appear as droplets of water to honour the coming of a new day. Fay attention tis more curse than blessing it is said, every spirit in existence has the ability to spin madness into the dulled minds of thankless rambling human scum.
The horrid children wait in the coldness of the morning mists and the coming of the storm. Of their shuffling footsteps and confounding gaze it is best not to speak too loudly.
In the sounds that jerk you awake at night lurk the nameless horrors, twisted and bitter shadows of whatever power they may once have held.
Behemoth stands alone, above, below, around, and within.
We're losing them. Where once we worshipped and obeyed we now question and destroy, we move ever forwards with our urge for self-destruction, pushing towards an end that the enlightened dread and the simple refuse to see.
And it is wonderful.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. That's the wedding rhyme if I'm not mistaken, listing the 4 requirements to be present at the ceremony in order for some kind of magic switch to flip and make the marriage work.
We have the something old, it's called history. We have something new, it's called the future. We have something borrowed, it's the world. We have something blue...it's sadness.
I know, without any doubt, that the human race is racing to be first in the shitter. Knowing that is what makes me choose to believe so feverently in what others dismiss as stories for children and old superstitions, it's part of what makes me so damn terrified of letting people know the real me, it's what fuels the dispair that makes me question the point behind everything I can think of.
It makes me sad...but sadness isn't ugly. Anger is ugly - in a pure, broken-nosed fighter kind of way when justified, and in a truly hideous, haunts the beds of small children kind of way when based in hatred. No, sadness is mournfully beautiful.
It's like standing outside, in the rain, alone...but the rain is warm, and there's no wind. And there's music too. It doesn't have any kind of tune or rhythm, it might be made of screams and fists, just as it may consist of you speaking words that hurt so much to say. But the music isn't bad, it soothes.
Ages ago, I gave up something, it isn't ever coming back.
Everything is so very beautiful...just look at it a different way.
My head hurts.
Mataspore
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