dm03514
08-20-2009, 01:34 PM
this is my first post anywhere, please give me feed back
thanks
When the veils of objectives are removed from your eyes the world is a painful place. There exists nothing but loss and grief and pain. It seems we are composed of nothing but unquenchable appetites.
I can’t remember how many times I’ve been through this. You see I don’t remember all the times linearly; Just tidbits, small individual memories that create the collage of my lives. Each time, though, I’m sure of it, I have this desire to escape; it seems I’m just not made to deal with the pain. I’m not quite sure of the beginning but here it goes. I’m hoping that by reliving all these it can help me to see what I lack. Details are something I usually try to avoid…they are just too painful.
I don’t remember if it’s the first or not, or if there was a first, but what I remember most about it was the sun. IT was relentless, the ground would cake under its perpetual gaze, my lips would crack, and eyes squint. I was born to poor parents, and at first I was happy. I’m always happy at first, maybe that’s why it feels like I fall so hard, because of that departure from happiness. Maybe if I was miserable from the get go I wouldn’t have any want to escape. The bazaar, the colors, the people were all intoxicating. The language, which I have long forgotten, was sharp and melodic, every person hummed like their own instrument. I remember waking up early to bake bread with my father so we could be at the market by noon. I remember my mothers soft but firm hands and her voice, the only one of my mother’s voices which I can still hear. The constant smell of fresh baked bread which was ingrained in our home, clothes and skin. Back then our lives still waxed and waned with that of the moon. We were still governed by something larger than ourselves.
The technical cold religion of science was not yet even in infancy, so when a fungus infected our rye crop my father was too blame. I remember clearly the blinding blue of the sky, the increasing tumult of an advancing angry crowd. They were trying to take out their anger and make sense of what had happened by taking out the person who they believed was responsible for poisoning them and their loved ones. Would my father’s death cure their sickness? They believed so.
They rushed our house, brandishing clubs, and tight fists, flame and anger charging us in a wave of hate. All those previously melodic vocal instruments were tuned to the sound of rage. My father fell first, from his attempt at barring the door; big hands and big arms firmly locked. He was nothing more then a fly to those angry eyes, a growing pool of blood and bloody footprints were all that were left of him as my mother gazed with dignity at the oncoming flood, as her arms were wrapped tightly around me. Dark hair and glinting eyes were all I remember until I awoke.
My father was nothing more then a pulp beside me while my mother’s fixed lifeless gaze stared straight about to the sun that would not give us any release. Our home was nothing more then crumbling walls and scattered stone. The first thing I noticed was a numbness in my legs, much like when theyf all asleep sitting down. I remember I went to push myself up, thinking to move my leg forward after propping myself up on my arms, yet there was no response.
I felt nothing, much like I do now, toward the memories of it. It’s too far removed, only a series of bad pictures, and the memory of life hours before. IT felt like I was looking down on the horrors; a scream cringing in my skull as my body lay broken and useless. The crowd already over the offense my father had unknowingly committed. I couldn’t imagine living with the images I had just witnessed. Is it any surprise what I did? Perhaps many would have done the same perhaps many would have tried to hold onto that now broken existence…but I couldn’t.
I began pulling myself past the rubble of our house, and life, I pulled hand over hand until my chest and hands were shredded bloody, eliciting not a look from anyone in the village as I left my last gift, a trail of bright blood to my past friends, crawling down to the river it was easy to put my head under. Cool release form that perpetual sun as the water hit my skin, I remember drawing breath after breath of cool water into my lungs, feeling no pain as my world got darker and darker…
I also remember waking up a hundred times over, as a hundred different lives, how hard is it to be happy when I have nothing but painful memories? In this sea of pain there are all too few good memories. When I’m a child I don’t understand, I have all these images of suffering. Not until I’m older do I realize the profundity of what I’m remembering. I made the mistake of talking about it once, before I realized they were more then just dreams. I’m stuck in this cycle of pain and suffering that I just can’t break from. The years remain inconsistent but the pain is always there.
thanks
When the veils of objectives are removed from your eyes the world is a painful place. There exists nothing but loss and grief and pain. It seems we are composed of nothing but unquenchable appetites.
I can’t remember how many times I’ve been through this. You see I don’t remember all the times linearly; Just tidbits, small individual memories that create the collage of my lives. Each time, though, I’m sure of it, I have this desire to escape; it seems I’m just not made to deal with the pain. I’m not quite sure of the beginning but here it goes. I’m hoping that by reliving all these it can help me to see what I lack. Details are something I usually try to avoid…they are just too painful.
I don’t remember if it’s the first or not, or if there was a first, but what I remember most about it was the sun. IT was relentless, the ground would cake under its perpetual gaze, my lips would crack, and eyes squint. I was born to poor parents, and at first I was happy. I’m always happy at first, maybe that’s why it feels like I fall so hard, because of that departure from happiness. Maybe if I was miserable from the get go I wouldn’t have any want to escape. The bazaar, the colors, the people were all intoxicating. The language, which I have long forgotten, was sharp and melodic, every person hummed like their own instrument. I remember waking up early to bake bread with my father so we could be at the market by noon. I remember my mothers soft but firm hands and her voice, the only one of my mother’s voices which I can still hear. The constant smell of fresh baked bread which was ingrained in our home, clothes and skin. Back then our lives still waxed and waned with that of the moon. We were still governed by something larger than ourselves.
The technical cold religion of science was not yet even in infancy, so when a fungus infected our rye crop my father was too blame. I remember clearly the blinding blue of the sky, the increasing tumult of an advancing angry crowd. They were trying to take out their anger and make sense of what had happened by taking out the person who they believed was responsible for poisoning them and their loved ones. Would my father’s death cure their sickness? They believed so.
They rushed our house, brandishing clubs, and tight fists, flame and anger charging us in a wave of hate. All those previously melodic vocal instruments were tuned to the sound of rage. My father fell first, from his attempt at barring the door; big hands and big arms firmly locked. He was nothing more then a fly to those angry eyes, a growing pool of blood and bloody footprints were all that were left of him as my mother gazed with dignity at the oncoming flood, as her arms were wrapped tightly around me. Dark hair and glinting eyes were all I remember until I awoke.
My father was nothing more then a pulp beside me while my mother’s fixed lifeless gaze stared straight about to the sun that would not give us any release. Our home was nothing more then crumbling walls and scattered stone. The first thing I noticed was a numbness in my legs, much like when theyf all asleep sitting down. I remember I went to push myself up, thinking to move my leg forward after propping myself up on my arms, yet there was no response.
I felt nothing, much like I do now, toward the memories of it. It’s too far removed, only a series of bad pictures, and the memory of life hours before. IT felt like I was looking down on the horrors; a scream cringing in my skull as my body lay broken and useless. The crowd already over the offense my father had unknowingly committed. I couldn’t imagine living with the images I had just witnessed. Is it any surprise what I did? Perhaps many would have done the same perhaps many would have tried to hold onto that now broken existence…but I couldn’t.
I began pulling myself past the rubble of our house, and life, I pulled hand over hand until my chest and hands were shredded bloody, eliciting not a look from anyone in the village as I left my last gift, a trail of bright blood to my past friends, crawling down to the river it was easy to put my head under. Cool release form that perpetual sun as the water hit my skin, I remember drawing breath after breath of cool water into my lungs, feeling no pain as my world got darker and darker…
I also remember waking up a hundred times over, as a hundred different lives, how hard is it to be happy when I have nothing but painful memories? In this sea of pain there are all too few good memories. When I’m a child I don’t understand, I have all these images of suffering. Not until I’m older do I realize the profundity of what I’m remembering. I made the mistake of talking about it once, before I realized they were more then just dreams. I’m stuck in this cycle of pain and suffering that I just can’t break from. The years remain inconsistent but the pain is always there.