Thursday, October 15, 2015

Short Cuts 2

I recall. My words. The death of our parents grants us the freedom to die ourselves, I've said. Or live. Depending on the faulty psyche.

I was right. And wrong. A death has set me free. But its memory has kept me captive. Death is the joker in every pack of cards. It decides your fate.


Give me a reason to live, I scream to the stars all night. And by morn I'm rich in reasons to die.

The dawn comes as a curse. It promises to bring me yet another day of one and the same. The same thoughts. Silences. Regrets. And anger. Anger towards me.


Mercy. I should have shown you that. By staying away from you. I was your bigger blessing, you said. I was your grandest curse, I knew.

You gave me inspiration. You gave me love. And I gave you false hope. And I bought you gifts. And told you how great you are. But, at least I gave no promises.


Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson sang. But hope is the opposite of dream. Hope is the great pretender.

The ones who dream should do. Otherwise the dream will come to naught. And those who hope should dream. If for them there should remain a hope. It seems that playing with words is…


The only thing I know how to do. I was always a storyteller. On the page. In the real world I was a hermit.

I cannot understand the way you think, you said. It was okay. I couldn't understand it either. Then. Now I know. I can only find redemption in the written word...

To be continued.

The image was taken from here.

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