Never ask a question if you already know that you won't like the answer. There's no worse feeling than the one that you get when someone confirms in words the fears that you hid in the night, locked in your thoughts where they burned without consuming.
Love is as warm as I am cold. We have never been to see the older man on the hill of knowledge; he has only looked on us and smiled as life drove its fist deep into our gut, holding us with grim unconcern as we vomited in pain and hopeless misery. Why would someone so close be so unkind. It's not a question, but a concern that wracks the soul and keeps the body from sleep, in regret and sorrow.
Life is not in the journey. It's in the pain of all days. All given for harmful actions begotten by harmless thoughts and harmful thoughts given over to harmful actions. The rooftops of life lay waste to the souls of men, and the daughters of all are lost to the whirlwind of filth and scorn. Pain is not the cleanser, Ned. Only blood and fire can make clean the dirt of this world, the refuse of heaven.
Gross injustice repaid with foul indulgence given at the behest of men. Men do not pass around the same old worn-out urge, Joss. It will never wear through; it will never be torn, never be broken, never be full, never be filled, never be sated, never be healed, never be whole. The urge is a mask for the want, the want a mask for the need, and the need so long ago buried that none will ever unearth it, see its face, know its name or call it blessed, until the last flame has made it useless and Forever out of reach.
Fire burns without consuming the purpose of its cleansing. Nothing can touch it, see it, smell it, reach it, love it, hold it, or kill it, but it will be burned.
And life ends in pain, as it began so many years ago, yesterday. The pain that conceived us redoubled upon us as we are ushered out of this world that offered us everything but gave only pain, dealt with a harsh blow and grim embrace.
Was this why we fought? -why we lived? -loved? -bled? -wept? -died.
Comments
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Wow, this was quite interesting. Despite its paragraph structure, I kept thinking of this as a poem. I want to say it had touches of Steinbeck, some famous poets (don't know my poetry that well), and, dare I say, a bit o' the Dickens in it.
I liked the thought-becomes-words-becomes-action idea you had going throughout. Your opening paragraph is true to a point: We always have to ask those questions, else they would bore a hole straight through us and we fear we would leak out right along with the rest of our pain.
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