And thus, our world was ended.
But would you believe me for telling you that we're going backwards? That this life - my life - is playing in reverse?
I was there in senile ignorance the day the world was made. Molten clay scooped from cosmic dust. By God? It does not matter. Leave it to humans to attempt to explain something that has no bearing on their lives. Always they looked back, when the real threat was right ahead of them.
From the mud and reeds we built a civilization. It fell down, but we always put it back together.
Technology and faith were the hallmarks of our civilization. The two always worked with and against each other, more alike than any would admit. Consider it a hand-me-down from our apish forefathers. The capacity for thought permitted the use of tools, but could never function properly without a satisfactory explanation of why - whether deluded or not.
Humanity grasped for space, but utterly failed. A new player - greed, always attached anchors where humanity needed wings. And thus the seams of our existence began to unravel, tugged in all directions at once.
I walked among you, and for a while we were equal. But then for a time it was you that became senile, and it was I that became naive. When the cracks became apparent in your veneer, you turned to your leaders for guidance. And thus, it became apparent how your systems would fail. Democracy, it is said, is a great thing. But it celebrates mediocrity. It is a peace-time means that fails in crisis. When the greatest powers needed leadership - direction - they instead fell to squabbling and politics. And thus, we are as much responsible for our demise as they are.
I watched as the fighting grew to wars. Great and terribly wars. The first was an atrocity of politics. The second and atrocity of ideals. The third... was the darkest aspects of humanity laid bare, and it was finally the crack that became a fissure. Though humanity survived it's own attempts to exterminate itself, the seeds were sown.
As the end drew near, I watched my own birth. Through the crumbling ruins of Earth my cries rang out. Our little blue marble in the cosmos fell to the same dust that made it, and through its death, I was born, and I now descend back to its beginning. I am as I was made. I am Hope.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The only thing we could do was sing and dance to death and heartbreak
Frank studied the suds that had collected in the bottom of his mug. Each frothy bit was a speculative thought on nothing, on futility, on himself. He was a former cop. A former husband. A former father, and perhaps a former human being, although sometimes the mangled corpse in his chest that passed for a heart would find it in itself to warm.
Tonight was a particularly lonely night. Frank sat alone at the bar, with nothing but a frosty mug to keep him company. Normally Mick joined him for a drink in the dying hours of the day. Mick seemed to be perpetually on the rocks with his wife. While his whining was sometimes irritating, Mick was a good sort of fellow, and despite the tears in his beer, he drank as well as the next guy, and Frank was always grateful for the company.
However, something happened the week before that had changed the usual routine. Mick came in one night with a steely gleam in his eye, and a spring in his step that Frank knew could only mean one of two things. Either Mick was furious. Or he'd just been shagged. A chain of vile profanities excluded the latter option. Something was up. Instead of his usual self-doubt, Mick seemed adamant about something.
"Frank," he said. "I'm going to do it tonight. I'm going to ask her."
"Ask who?" Frank muttered between sips of cheap piss.
"My wife. I'm going to ask her why she's sleeping around."
Frank nodded. He worked to suppress a wry grin. Why wasn't a good question. Why was the kind of question a fool asked when he wanted to get punched in the face. Why was the question that made a man into a former man.
And of course Mick would learn this lesson. He'd learn it, and it would be the last lesson he'd learn. The next day, Mick confronted his wife and grilled her for answers. Helen's always been something of a bitch, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut. It would've been better if she'd just have left Mick and skipped the drama.
When it finally came out that three inches wasn't enough to float Helen's boat, Mick didn't know what to do. All his well thought out responses and retorts, his piercing accusations. It didn't mean a thing. In the end, the only retort he could manage was to tearfully explode his brains over the kitchen wall with a borrowed three-fifty-seven. Helen had been making a pot roast that night, when she heard the sobbing coming down the hallway, she turned just in time to see Mick pull the trigger.
Frank shook his glass, the suds now dissolved to yellow residue at the bottom of his glass. The barkeep eyed him warily as he started to pour another drink. It was swill, but it did the job. Just as sure as old Mick did.
Helen was psychologically destroyed after Mick committed suicide in front of her. When the police found her, she was huddled in the foetal position against the wall opposite Mick's brain display, weeping uncontrollably. The smells of burnt roast and human gore was one the investigators said was both nauseating and strangely comforting at the same time. Helen was committed to a mental institute to help her recovery along. Whoever she'd been having midnight trysts with disappeared as sure as the morning, because Helen only ever received one visitor - Frank.
Frank recalled all the times he had visited Helen in the institution. He looked down into his fresh mug and made a disgusted face. He didn't go to comfort her, oh no. He went to recount all the nights he'd spent with Mick. Helen was a fine woman, oh sure. But what had happened wasn't suicide in Frank's mind. It was murder.
It reminded Frank of his own wife. She had disappeared with both children in the middle of the night in the middle of a spring thunderstorm. The only clue Frank ever got was a letter left on the kitchen table explaining that he wasn't the man she thought he was when she married him, and that his job on the Service had changed him in ways she didn't like. Why, he wanted to ask. But thought better of it. Although perhaps things would've ended up better if he had.
The next day, Frank had responded to a domestic disturbance, with reports of gunshots fired. The Service was, as usual, understaffed, and Frank was the first on the scene - alone. The rest was kind of a blur in his memory. When the dust settled and the spent brass was counted, Frank had practically executed an entire family. His badge was revoked, he was ejected from the Service, and demonized by the public. But that was a long time ago. And Frank recalled distinctly what Mick had told him at that time.
"People will never remember you for when you were strong. They'll only remember that one instant when you were weak. When the façade cracked and you lost it - even for a minute."
"Even for a minute, Mick," muttered Frank as he downed his beer. "Even for a minute."
Rising from his stool at the bar, Frank paid his tab and then staggered out into the cool air. He had enough alcohol in his blood to kill a small horse, but the fresh summer air made him want to go for a drive. Why? He asked himself, as he turned the engine over in his Grand Marquis. Formerly a family car. Now a rolling casket.
Why?
Tonight was a particularly lonely night. Frank sat alone at the bar, with nothing but a frosty mug to keep him company. Normally Mick joined him for a drink in the dying hours of the day. Mick seemed to be perpetually on the rocks with his wife. While his whining was sometimes irritating, Mick was a good sort of fellow, and despite the tears in his beer, he drank as well as the next guy, and Frank was always grateful for the company.
However, something happened the week before that had changed the usual routine. Mick came in one night with a steely gleam in his eye, and a spring in his step that Frank knew could only mean one of two things. Either Mick was furious. Or he'd just been shagged. A chain of vile profanities excluded the latter option. Something was up. Instead of his usual self-doubt, Mick seemed adamant about something.
"Frank," he said. "I'm going to do it tonight. I'm going to ask her."
"Ask who?" Frank muttered between sips of cheap piss.
"My wife. I'm going to ask her why she's sleeping around."
Frank nodded. He worked to suppress a wry grin. Why wasn't a good question. Why was the kind of question a fool asked when he wanted to get punched in the face. Why was the question that made a man into a former man.
And of course Mick would learn this lesson. He'd learn it, and it would be the last lesson he'd learn. The next day, Mick confronted his wife and grilled her for answers. Helen's always been something of a bitch, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut. It would've been better if she'd just have left Mick and skipped the drama.
When it finally came out that three inches wasn't enough to float Helen's boat, Mick didn't know what to do. All his well thought out responses and retorts, his piercing accusations. It didn't mean a thing. In the end, the only retort he could manage was to tearfully explode his brains over the kitchen wall with a borrowed three-fifty-seven. Helen had been making a pot roast that night, when she heard the sobbing coming down the hallway, she turned just in time to see Mick pull the trigger.
Frank shook his glass, the suds now dissolved to yellow residue at the bottom of his glass. The barkeep eyed him warily as he started to pour another drink. It was swill, but it did the job. Just as sure as old Mick did.
Helen was psychologically destroyed after Mick committed suicide in front of her. When the police found her, she was huddled in the foetal position against the wall opposite Mick's brain display, weeping uncontrollably. The smells of burnt roast and human gore was one the investigators said was both nauseating and strangely comforting at the same time. Helen was committed to a mental institute to help her recovery along. Whoever she'd been having midnight trysts with disappeared as sure as the morning, because Helen only ever received one visitor - Frank.
Frank recalled all the times he had visited Helen in the institution. He looked down into his fresh mug and made a disgusted face. He didn't go to comfort her, oh no. He went to recount all the nights he'd spent with Mick. Helen was a fine woman, oh sure. But what had happened wasn't suicide in Frank's mind. It was murder.
It reminded Frank of his own wife. She had disappeared with both children in the middle of the night in the middle of a spring thunderstorm. The only clue Frank ever got was a letter left on the kitchen table explaining that he wasn't the man she thought he was when she married him, and that his job on the Service had changed him in ways she didn't like. Why, he wanted to ask. But thought better of it. Although perhaps things would've ended up better if he had.
The next day, Frank had responded to a domestic disturbance, with reports of gunshots fired. The Service was, as usual, understaffed, and Frank was the first on the scene - alone. The rest was kind of a blur in his memory. When the dust settled and the spent brass was counted, Frank had practically executed an entire family. His badge was revoked, he was ejected from the Service, and demonized by the public. But that was a long time ago. And Frank recalled distinctly what Mick had told him at that time.
"People will never remember you for when you were strong. They'll only remember that one instant when you were weak. When the façade cracked and you lost it - even for a minute."
"Even for a minute, Mick," muttered Frank as he downed his beer. "Even for a minute."
Rising from his stool at the bar, Frank paid his tab and then staggered out into the cool air. He had enough alcohol in his blood to kill a small horse, but the fresh summer air made him want to go for a drive. Why? He asked himself, as he turned the engine over in his Grand Marquis. Formerly a family car. Now a rolling casket.
Why?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
An Excerpt from somebody else's life
Life is irony. And it was never more true than when an old crone told her preacher one day that the devil's shadow is always longest closer to the light. Never was this more true than with the preacher's own son, Don.
Don was an irreverent sinner. While his father spent his time in his study pondering life and the bible, Don spent his days feeding his numerous addictions, and worshiping a completely different, feminine shrine. Don was the kind of guy who couldn't get enough from life. Anything he wanted with a price tag, he bought. Everything else, he fucked the hell out of until he was bored. Five less brain cells, and there was no doubt that Don would've been a modern mongol, his genes so interwoven into society that everyone could trace their heritage back to him.
His father tried hard to imagine that Don's open nature about his misdeeds was somehow a kind of roundabout apology, but he could never get his son to see the damage his behaviour was causing. The two were infamous for their heated arguments. The first was when Dan arrived home late one night, practically beaming over the fact he had just deflowered a girl no older than 16. The preacher had wanted to skin his fornicating hide for that, but after a battle of words that lasted longer than a drunken tantra session, the two finally met amidst a foggy moral middle ground. Nobody knows what dark deals were struck between the two, but it was said that the love of a father came out ahead over a love of God's rule that day.
Of course, Don continued his lifestyle. A high paying job paved the way for a new car and ample funds to spend on near endless nothings, distractions and baubles to amuse his ever-shrinking mind, and whatever mind he was stealing bodily contacts from.
That is until one day, Don made perhaps the only intelligent decision in his life. With a full bank account, he decided that the best way to make more money would be to take a course at the nearby University. His father, for once, looked on approvingly.
But the lifestyle went on unabated through the first year of University. After switching courses numerous times - rumour was for reasons beyond academics - Don ended up in a philosophy course. The deeper lessons didn't penetrate the eternal fratboy's mind, and even then, the all-pervasive lifestyle continued. The preacher's son an eternal playboy. That is, until he met Terry.
Terry was a moody and disturbed individual, but there was something about him that was immediately likeable. He had deep, sunken eyes that seemed to pierce like javelins, and his apathetic swagger was accented by the fact that he chain-smoked harder than cinder block factory. Despite his often scathing outlook, Terry exuded a kind of aura that seemed almost comfortable. Like he was the most bad-ass god-smacking creature on the planet, and not to worry a bit because he liked you just enough to let you live.
For the first time in his life, Don found an uncompromising critic of his lifestyle. Terry was single, and so comfortable in the fact that he could practically scorn couples into submission by his mere presence alone. Don often invited Terry to parties and binge-nights. Terry would often take a long draw on his cigarette before answering.
"You know Don, those parties'll kill you. The people. They're not really people. They're vampires. They'll suck your soul out."
In the span of three clipped sentences, Terry would have drawn another cigarette to extinction and lighted another.
Don would often ignore his cynical friend. Sure things would get sucked out through the course of the evening, but Don never saw any vampires. All he saw was the same thing he had worshiped since he was practically old enough to tell the difference between a man and delicious, sexy women.
Of course, that all changed a few months later. Terry, who seemed to grow more disturbed - and all the more likeable - as time went on, developed a habit for disappearing for weeks at a time. When asked about his unexplained absences, Terry would often brush it off as "None of you're Goddamn business."
While he was never a social animal, Terry did have a circle of friends. Or rather, people who identified themselves as his friend, but he merely tolerated because they weren't completely retarded. Don was one of these individuals, and contrary to whatever alcohol-fuelled delusions floated in his head, it was Terry that kept him around, and not vice versa.
Terry was amused by such pursuit of carnal propositions. It was a neverending spiral. Once one acquired a hunger for sex and material wealth, it only grew. It could never be satiated, and as a result, Terry treated Don as both a foil, and a lab-rat style amusement.
Of course, whatever drama the two developed ended one shady September weekend. Terry had been gone for two weeks already before anyone thought to look for him. It was Saturday afternoon when Don rolled out of his bed to answer his expensive cell phone. The voice on the other end tore a ragged hole in his existence with nothing by a fine point of news.
Terry was dead. He had been found in a run-down apartment with three gunshot wounds to his chest and head. Somehow, in perhaps the greatest fuckup in the long, miserable history of human fuckups, the police listed his death as suicide. Either Terry truly was the biggest bad ass - so bad it took three shots to off himself - or an even bigger bad ass had gotten tired of Terry and decided to remove him.
It came out during the police investigation that Terry wasn't who everyone thought him to be. He'd been engaged once, but like all great cynics, Terry hid his powerful source of darkness. His fiancé had fought for years with a malignant tumour. In the end, Terry's vast family fortune and all the best doctors in the world weren't enough to save the girl. She died bald and practically skeletal in a hospital bed, robbed of both surface beauty and dignity by little more than a few pea-sized nodules.
Bankrupt, broken, and alone, Terry isolated himself from society for years before finally reappearing to try and make things work again. His life at the University was to be his last step back into the world of the living. However, Terry himself - at that point an avid smoker - wasn't destined to live. A coroner's report indicated that Terry had developed the early signs of lung cancer, and probably wouldn't have lived much past 40.
Life is Irony. It was the title of manuscript found at Terry's home address. He had been writing a book. Part memoir. Part melancholia-fueled fantasy. In it's quickly yellowing pages, Don found himself, and finally realized where he was and what he was doing. What's more, Don found what Terry had been trying to instill in him for their brief friendship. Purpose. And perhaps more, a sense of dignity. Maybe the guy had just been worried that one day Don would catch something and his nuts would fall off.
The eternal playboy woke up to find himself the son of a preacher and friend to a dead man. That sobering thought soured Don's taste for extravagance. And even then, so many questions were left unanswered. What had really happened to Terry? Why was he away from home when he died?
Fourth year rolled around without warning. A name consistently turned up in absence. Don disappeared for months at a time, and nobody really knew where he went. One day he just disappeared entirely. Strangely enough, nobody, save his father, the preacher, ever asked questions.
And how long had his shadow become by that point?
Ah, but life is irony. Even the preacher, so long in studying his bible, sat one night and couldn't find the answers.
And then one chilly December afternoon, he disappeared too.
Don was an irreverent sinner. While his father spent his time in his study pondering life and the bible, Don spent his days feeding his numerous addictions, and worshiping a completely different, feminine shrine. Don was the kind of guy who couldn't get enough from life. Anything he wanted with a price tag, he bought. Everything else, he fucked the hell out of until he was bored. Five less brain cells, and there was no doubt that Don would've been a modern mongol, his genes so interwoven into society that everyone could trace their heritage back to him.
His father tried hard to imagine that Don's open nature about his misdeeds was somehow a kind of roundabout apology, but he could never get his son to see the damage his behaviour was causing. The two were infamous for their heated arguments. The first was when Dan arrived home late one night, practically beaming over the fact he had just deflowered a girl no older than 16. The preacher had wanted to skin his fornicating hide for that, but after a battle of words that lasted longer than a drunken tantra session, the two finally met amidst a foggy moral middle ground. Nobody knows what dark deals were struck between the two, but it was said that the love of a father came out ahead over a love of God's rule that day.
Of course, Don continued his lifestyle. A high paying job paved the way for a new car and ample funds to spend on near endless nothings, distractions and baubles to amuse his ever-shrinking mind, and whatever mind he was stealing bodily contacts from.
That is until one day, Don made perhaps the only intelligent decision in his life. With a full bank account, he decided that the best way to make more money would be to take a course at the nearby University. His father, for once, looked on approvingly.
But the lifestyle went on unabated through the first year of University. After switching courses numerous times - rumour was for reasons beyond academics - Don ended up in a philosophy course. The deeper lessons didn't penetrate the eternal fratboy's mind, and even then, the all-pervasive lifestyle continued. The preacher's son an eternal playboy. That is, until he met Terry.
Terry was a moody and disturbed individual, but there was something about him that was immediately likeable. He had deep, sunken eyes that seemed to pierce like javelins, and his apathetic swagger was accented by the fact that he chain-smoked harder than cinder block factory. Despite his often scathing outlook, Terry exuded a kind of aura that seemed almost comfortable. Like he was the most bad-ass god-smacking creature on the planet, and not to worry a bit because he liked you just enough to let you live.
For the first time in his life, Don found an uncompromising critic of his lifestyle. Terry was single, and so comfortable in the fact that he could practically scorn couples into submission by his mere presence alone. Don often invited Terry to parties and binge-nights. Terry would often take a long draw on his cigarette before answering.
"You know Don, those parties'll kill you. The people. They're not really people. They're vampires. They'll suck your soul out."
In the span of three clipped sentences, Terry would have drawn another cigarette to extinction and lighted another.
Don would often ignore his cynical friend. Sure things would get sucked out through the course of the evening, but Don never saw any vampires. All he saw was the same thing he had worshiped since he was practically old enough to tell the difference between a man and delicious, sexy women.
Of course, that all changed a few months later. Terry, who seemed to grow more disturbed - and all the more likeable - as time went on, developed a habit for disappearing for weeks at a time. When asked about his unexplained absences, Terry would often brush it off as "None of you're Goddamn business."
While he was never a social animal, Terry did have a circle of friends. Or rather, people who identified themselves as his friend, but he merely tolerated because they weren't completely retarded. Don was one of these individuals, and contrary to whatever alcohol-fuelled delusions floated in his head, it was Terry that kept him around, and not vice versa.
Terry was amused by such pursuit of carnal propositions. It was a neverending spiral. Once one acquired a hunger for sex and material wealth, it only grew. It could never be satiated, and as a result, Terry treated Don as both a foil, and a lab-rat style amusement.
Of course, whatever drama the two developed ended one shady September weekend. Terry had been gone for two weeks already before anyone thought to look for him. It was Saturday afternoon when Don rolled out of his bed to answer his expensive cell phone. The voice on the other end tore a ragged hole in his existence with nothing by a fine point of news.
Terry was dead. He had been found in a run-down apartment with three gunshot wounds to his chest and head. Somehow, in perhaps the greatest fuckup in the long, miserable history of human fuckups, the police listed his death as suicide. Either Terry truly was the biggest bad ass - so bad it took three shots to off himself - or an even bigger bad ass had gotten tired of Terry and decided to remove him.
It came out during the police investigation that Terry wasn't who everyone thought him to be. He'd been engaged once, but like all great cynics, Terry hid his powerful source of darkness. His fiancé had fought for years with a malignant tumour. In the end, Terry's vast family fortune and all the best doctors in the world weren't enough to save the girl. She died bald and practically skeletal in a hospital bed, robbed of both surface beauty and dignity by little more than a few pea-sized nodules.
Bankrupt, broken, and alone, Terry isolated himself from society for years before finally reappearing to try and make things work again. His life at the University was to be his last step back into the world of the living. However, Terry himself - at that point an avid smoker - wasn't destined to live. A coroner's report indicated that Terry had developed the early signs of lung cancer, and probably wouldn't have lived much past 40.
Life is Irony. It was the title of manuscript found at Terry's home address. He had been writing a book. Part memoir. Part melancholia-fueled fantasy. In it's quickly yellowing pages, Don found himself, and finally realized where he was and what he was doing. What's more, Don found what Terry had been trying to instill in him for their brief friendship. Purpose. And perhaps more, a sense of dignity. Maybe the guy had just been worried that one day Don would catch something and his nuts would fall off.
The eternal playboy woke up to find himself the son of a preacher and friend to a dead man. That sobering thought soured Don's taste for extravagance. And even then, so many questions were left unanswered. What had really happened to Terry? Why was he away from home when he died?
Fourth year rolled around without warning. A name consistently turned up in absence. Don disappeared for months at a time, and nobody really knew where he went. One day he just disappeared entirely. Strangely enough, nobody, save his father, the preacher, ever asked questions.
And how long had his shadow become by that point?
Ah, but life is irony. Even the preacher, so long in studying his bible, sat one night and couldn't find the answers.
And then one chilly December afternoon, he disappeared too.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
In Open Air: Part 3
As I pitch back into my chair, headphones secured tightly around my head, I think in earnest about the state of the world, and how the truth comes in spades from your faithful advertisers and big-talking wankers elected to be nervous and ineffectual.
I've dreamt about a day when I can turn on a radio, instead of hearing the white noise of a world's population tearing itself apart, I'll hear a common voice with 6.1 billion nuances. Make that two voices, because I've always been obstinate. Two voices. One great, grand vision. And myself. An insect. A mosquito that drinks the lifeblood of idiocy. As I pitch back, I listen...
Join now and get 50% off your - invasion began with a bang this morning, the Operation was called a success by - Penis enlargement pills, half off only from - Hell. That's the only way I can describe it. It was like - the future is bright! Remember, you're only two clicks away from security, and peace of - mines cause an estimated %� injuries a year. Give generously to - the royalty reviews haven't addressed the &$%##. The people still want - a sex shop on every corner, even besides the churches. It was %*&$ @*$##, and there was a Cinema &%$#@#help*%$# - the government's been secretly monitoring our *%($^m$#e - And the lord said, let there be %&@#$$turn$% - %$&^this@$ $% shoes, dresses, and our world famous %$# - and there it was, the most beautiful car I had %*$(#thing%($@) - #)$%(@ you dare, you'll $%&#@#off.
And there it is. The voices are quiet. For a minute, the endless machine is silent.
Is this the end? No. There are no ends, save one. There are no happy endings. There are no sad endings. The only end is death, which when you think about it, is the end of sadness, happiness, and everything in between. Everything from the first breath to last is an interlude. A moment to pause and examine. An artist. A writer. A life within a life. An image in a window, the gates to the soul blown open.
Invariably, we all succumb at one point, to what amounts to a never-ending pressure. We all bargain with our souls and lose, and we - despite our resoluteness - say yes, when the answer should've been no.
So in this... three windows. Three doors. Three stories. This is an ending. But it is not the end. There will be a thousand tears shed after this, and there will be a hundred joys. But there will be but one end. And this will not be it.
I've dreamt about a day when I can turn on a radio, instead of hearing the white noise of a world's population tearing itself apart, I'll hear a common voice with 6.1 billion nuances. Make that two voices, because I've always been obstinate. Two voices. One great, grand vision. And myself. An insect. A mosquito that drinks the lifeblood of idiocy. As I pitch back, I listen...
Join now and get 50% off your - invasion began with a bang this morning, the Operation was called a success by - Penis enlargement pills, half off only from - Hell. That's the only way I can describe it. It was like - the future is bright! Remember, you're only two clicks away from security, and peace of - mines cause an estimated %� injuries a year. Give generously to - the royalty reviews haven't addressed the &$%##. The people still want - a sex shop on every corner, even besides the churches. It was %*&$ @*$##, and there was a Cinema &%$#@#help*%$# - the government's been secretly monitoring our *%($^m$#e - And the lord said, let there be %&@#$$turn$% - %$&^this@$ $% shoes, dresses, and our world famous %$# - and there it was, the most beautiful car I had %*$(#thing%($@) - #)$%(@ you dare, you'll $%&#@#off.
And there it is. The voices are quiet. For a minute, the endless machine is silent.
Is this the end? No. There are no ends, save one. There are no happy endings. There are no sad endings. The only end is death, which when you think about it, is the end of sadness, happiness, and everything in between. Everything from the first breath to last is an interlude. A moment to pause and examine. An artist. A writer. A life within a life. An image in a window, the gates to the soul blown open.
Invariably, we all succumb at one point, to what amounts to a never-ending pressure. We all bargain with our souls and lose, and we - despite our resoluteness - say yes, when the answer should've been no.
So in this... three windows. Three doors. Three stories. This is an ending. But it is not the end. There will be a thousand tears shed after this, and there will be a hundred joys. But there will be but one end. And this will not be it.
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