CONFESSIONS OF A LOST AND DYING MAN:
What spectre comes for me, upon my last of days? What unfathomable winged beings stalk my dark and dismal thoughts? What have I left, save my anger and my pride? What is the relentless source of this, my selfishness and jealousy?
My sadness carries me to places yet unknown. I seek that voice which will never sound, and that sight which cannot be seen. The small amount of loyalty which yet remains within me is greatly taxed by these trying times. I am lost completely within the twisted confines of myself.
This pain can no longer be persuaded, as it so stubbornly advances. I make my last attempts to stave it off, knowing that it watches me from beyond these familiar shadows. It cannot consume me yet, while I remain awake. However, the foul-pervasive darkness of the night ahead is long and arduous, and my will to fight unto the end is shrunk and whithered by the thought.
I try to understand, yet I cannot, for both my heart and soul are blinded to the truth. As the sightless shall see, or as the lame do walk, so too am I the wasted measure of a man. These weary bones will fail me soon, as my poor mind strives onward valiantly; yet slowly burning out -- with a malignant resolve that is steadily deminishing, as though it were a whisper on the wind.
posted by Valhenstrogg | Monday, December 31, 2001
1 Comments:
These words are but wretched graspings toward a future I cannot comprehend; my own vain attempt to thwart the aching, ever-present hurt within myself. How accurate these words might once have been, for the purposes which they were first intended, is of little value now, as they are shaded by the knowledge and the loss of those whom I once held most dear.
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