I was born on a stormy Monday when the skies were green and the wind was tainted with grief. I was born to a woman with red arms. Her body was cold and her hands were frail, and she brought me into a world that was akin to a dying star. The sun had chosen to shed its flare, and a crowd had gathered to witness my descent. The night was young, and entropy reigned supreme around us.
The ground didn’t tremble on the day I was born; only houses of worship were lit on fire. There were no stars in the sky to guide the pious men, and women, to my mother’s house. I was born in a brothel that was painted red. It had no roof; and the heavens, the clergy, and the world and his wives sang requiems for my mother and her family. I was born to a whore who fornicated with spiders, and fat old men who dressed like circus wrestlers. My mother was to give birth to a generation that would destroy the hierarchy and free her, and her family, from a circle of debt that had been passed on to them. Life, the surreal transition you experienced as you tried to fade away into oblivion, eroded from your veins the moment my mother chose to dwell among her apparitions, along with my debt to her . We promised her paradise my love, and she died drowning in eternal sorrow. What does this act of treachery to the human soul make us, by default? Decadent dreams, an uncertain future, myriads of doubts, and grim promises were all that we inherited. I have robbed my family of their dreams, and we have raped their desires. I am a bastard, and we are murderers.
Do you understand the nature of your surroundings? Can you tell me why you chose to stay? These flooded hallways weren’t always painted red, and the sounds you fear and the things you see are not ominous either. These are neither projections of a confused mind nor are they grandeur delusions of maestros who have choked on pills; you have been a resident of this colony; among us, for your entire life. Don’t you remember? You and I were born from the same womb, and we are accountable for the world around us; a world sprung out of our desire to be whole again. I have borne witness to your acts, and I have stood by you in every step forward you’ve taken; even when your desires crippled you, and even when you painted the brothels red as they burnt. Are you not sated? We have finally stepped beyond the cardinal norms set for the abused and melancholic residents of this teeming colony of insects and carrion. Were you not prepared for this? Don’t you hear the troop of echoes paving the way to your destination?
Don’t be afraid, my love. Hold my hand and walk with me; ride along these tides and step into the fog that pervades this place. These hallways aren’t flooded with my tears, those belong to my mother, and these walls aren’t carved from your dreams. She wept for us; and her plangent cries for help failed to break the sound of the storm, on the day I was born. Do you still think it was the thought of death that brought us together? Why can’t you see, the spiders blinding you with their distortions like my mother did? She had agreed to be inflicted by flames and torture, and to be raped by fat old men; is she here, or does she wait at where all this carnage began? We promised her paradise, and we left her for the spiders and the butchers. What does this act of treachery to the human soul, make us by default? Do you still believe that I am another session in your waking state of life; or do you still believe that we are characters in your own writing? Hold my throat and slit my wrists; let my blood clothe you, and let it drown you with your beliefs. Let the trail of death I left behind end with my waking state of life. Can you finally see the shining stars and burning trees, like I do?
Ask yourself ; have you ever been to the end of this world? Have you ever seen the dark side of the sun? Embrace this brief moment that preludes your frantic rush to escape this prism; embrace its drunken ecstasy and the mute protest in your bones, and watch the monoliths you built crumble down. Can’t you see, its walls weeping, like I do?
Do my words misguide you? Why is it that you ignore the singularity that lurks behind my questions? It is concise, and it is always in complete harmony with the nature of your surroundings. Do you still not believe I am the ignominious truth that you have failed to accept?
Burn your doubts and cleanse yourself in my blood,and ask yourself; what if, what I write here, would be you? Would you still hope to find an answer in this page or even at the end of this hallway? No matter what you learn or what you see, you will always be blind; and all you can do is sit beside the burning trees.