Death to All Flowers

I sit in a trench surrounded by the smells of burning and gas. Around me there are the bodies of so many dead – some I knew, some I didn’t. Some I liked, some I despised.

Some I killed. 

It’s easy to call me a murderer but until you have engaged in battle like this, you can’t understand. I would happily take the punishment for the crimes I have committed. It is, after all, justice. However, it would not change the past. It would not change me, my sense that no one else quite understands the mental torture that I put myself through to get to this state of sheer apathy.

Your sense of horror is the first thing to go. You become desensitized to the pure hell around you. A stench of rotting flesh and the whizzing of artillery prior to impact. The sight of a solitary flower attempting to push through the mire and the misery, only to be trampled by the next assault. The taste of gas that never quite leaves you again.
Eventually you start to take some perverse pleasure in plucking the flower before anything else reaches it and tearing it in to the smallest shreds that you can.

Perhaps it’s a representation of your dignity.

You throw yourself into every attack in the hope that this will be the one that kills you and when, instead, you are the only one to survive intact, you take to killing your injured comrades. Put them out of their misery.

I drag some bodies back in to an abandoned section of trench and sit amongst them. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all, so instead I sit in silence. Mind-numbing, aching silence.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

And then I realise:

This is not reality, this is not where I am. This is where I was.

And where I always will be, as I continue to live this moment every time I receive even a hint of that gas or those bombs or that rancid flesh.

I can’t even bring myself to grow flowers anymore. I kill them off.

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Thoughts on mortality at 2am in the morning, when I really wish I was asleep

Life is not clear. Time will move on. Our minds will be stuck in the past. Sometimes, I long for the days gone by – when life was simple and I had no responsibility to behold. 

No rebellious mind or pain-laden body.

No desire to discover the intricacies of human relationships.

When I could just be in the company of others and enjoy it for what it was. An interaction with someone who cared for me in some way and I did not mind what that way was.

And on other occassions I have a strange desire to tear myself limb from dastardly limb in some vain, forlorn attempt to rebuild myself, to become someone else. And then I see that, in doing so, I could be no better than the parts that I now have.

Senseless though it may be, this is why I look into the mirror and see nothing but a scruffy mess of flesh and hair looking back at me, a look of utter desperation in his eyes as he looks to escape from the ideology of life.

On occassion I am reminded of childhood and at these times I see more clearly than ever that I can never grow up. Grow as old as I might, I seem destined to have the mindset of a child for what may seem to be an eternity.

But no man walks earth for an eternity. Every human being, however great or small their impact, is destined for death. A short run upon the stage of life before the pain ends.

Blissfully.

Peacefully.

And in that time, some may fill their lives so completely that there will suddenly be a great chasm in the souls of others. Some will leave the land of the living with nothing more than a whimper.

Such is death.

Love Happens

There is an old adage, oft quoted and oft cut short. It begins thusly:

We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone.

Orson Welles, to whom this pearl of wisdom is attributed, went on. He had this to add:

Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we’re not alone.

As sobering as all of this may seem, it raises a point of great importance – most of us are looking for love and sometimes we don’t savour it enough when we have it.

In all frankness, this post comes a couple of days after I was first inspired to write it. Wandering along on my way home from a rehearsal, my mind descended into its usual chaos of thought and suddenly, further down the pathway, I saw two people coming in the opposite direction. 

There is nothing unusual in this, true, but these people were beaming as they raced along towards the crossing. I do not pretend to know who these people were or what relationship they held with each other, but there was a sudden moment of clarity among the ever increasing swirl of worthlessness that had surrounded me.

What I am looking for in life is love, not necessarily any sort of sexual love, just relationships with people and the world around me that show an exchange of love.

I believe this to be case for most people and part of the problem is that there are those who wantonly destroy any love we can have for the world by a destruction of hope.

Hope is an emotion which is perhaps misplaced, but it will never leave as long as there is love to accompany it.

And, of course, it always helps if you state your love in the first place.

C’est si bon

Life in the Mist

The mist rolls down from the mountains,
Clouding the eyes of the deer laid around,
Leaving the sky committed to the darkness.
Something lurks here, it waits to be found
By someone who is not you.
Some call it a black dog that preys on your mind.
Whatever you call it, it tries to hide in the cracks, the crevices, the caves
On the mountainside until the mist descends.
And when that time comes
You know.

You know that just getting up feels like climbing a mountain.
Just being awake is enough to make you question why you exist.
You feel that your life has become a fountain of shit
Causing you to gag in the stench of your failings.
You drown in the everyday and revel in the chance to sleep
For just five more minutes.
You’re fat, you’re ugly, you’re lazy, you’re useless.
Everyone hates you.
Everyone is looking at you.

And eventually, that black dog has wrapped itself around your body.
It begins to consume you.
And then,
Then,
Then someone sees your burden, it cannot hide in its cave any longer.
The dog retreats for now, leaving behind marks of tooth and claw;
A constant reminder that you have come through your struggle and survived.
At least for now.

Would you consider this salvation?

The Reason for This

I used to be a committed person. I could stick at things and people thought that I did a good job. My writing style, for example, is something that I have been complimented on.

And yet here I am, doing a blog that next to no one will see, purely because I feel as if I can’t write properly anymore. My thoughts are no longer entirely lucid on some subjects and I need to get back into the habit of writing things down, if only to try and organise my life of laziness.

It’s difficult to write when you feel that what you say isn’t important. You just need to remember that it is important, even if only for your own clarity of mind.