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agent of oblivion
You will learn far more from her by speaking to her than you will by listening to her. She will not betray her secrets when she spins her eloquent words for you, but her eyes will show every nuance of emotion as she responds to your chosen words and gestures. As long as you dominate the conversation you will remain in control and she will show you her fragile and hungry heart. But if you slip for a moment you will lie in a web of her self-deceit, caught and waiting for the spiders of her past to devour you.
He woke to face the sun against his will. Unsure that he had the strength to rise and face it, he dreaded the pressure of the air as the light stung his eyes. It had taken so much from him to endure the night, and now he was little more than a reminder that a man can be dragged through anything and survive. A mess of thought and half remembered nightmares compounded with newly admitted fears clearly stated that survival was not victory. He was desperate to escape the confines of stillness that gave way to the onslaught of memory.
Contemplating the taste of the masses and the desire to devour them, I can only accept that their demise would be a tribute to my struggle for spiritual freedom. I have given birth to the thought but cannot embrace the need for action. Instead of seeking the extinction of my species I have set the hunger aside and plowed forth into their world, wading through the slime and filth to seek sustenance from the hands of their young and their forgotten. The future will not be cleansed, but perhaps I can taint the poison with my own promise of nihilism.
The mad hatter is not dead. He did not fall down a rabbit hole. He has set down the knife of science and stopped carving holes in the sky. He has abandoned the ambition of technology and stopped erasing the lies of the past. He has nestled himself into the hollow of a tree and taken up mutilation with a pen, using fantasy to devour and dismember the children of the streets with instruments of their own filth. A new career in delighting the sacred few at the expense of the nameless many, he finds satisfaction in his new work.
I climbed gently from the darkness in her mind. I lowered myself into the hazy outskirts of reality and slipped away from her dream, hoping my escape would go unnoticed. I did not want her to wake. Her soft breath was steady and even, and I tried desperately to keep from disturbing it as I slipped out of her room and down the hall. She would be devastated to find me gone in the morning, but furious if she woke to find me slipping out. Precaution was the only necessity of the moment, and I fled under its watchful eye.
She is intoxicating in these quiet moments. All of the pretense and precaution is gone, and in the place of misperception stands a beautiful girl that I long to embrace. Her curious eyes and soft-spoken words enchant me, each thought sparking another and fueling our conversation into the late hours of night. I am afraid to reach out and touch her, to take her in my arms and kiss her. I want nothing more than to hold her and make her mine, but I fear that she may flee if I act. I am helpless as we conquer the night.
The lights of the circus were tainted yellow and buzzed like flies. They cast a sickly pallor on the flesh of its inhabitants. Beyond the artificial light and the hazy darkness a set of eyes watched it all in wonder, enchanted by the faint music echoing beneath the buzz like a seductive whisper. But for all of his want and wonder, the voyeur could not overcome the fear of the crowd. So he sat and watched, dreaming of the sights and smells and sounds beyond his perception, yearning for the day that he may find the strength to capture them.
From the moment I saw her I knew that something was different. I stayed quiet and tried to keep myself from crossing paths with her, fearing what might come of it. But there was no way to avoid it, and before long she was invading every moment or thought, and every moment with her was invigorating. But it did not last, and before either of us could say why we were ripped apart. Now she cries out to me in the darkness and we weep together. Somehow I have come to mourn the loss of something I never really had.
There are moments from her childhood that I will never forget. On her fourth Christmas she donned a mask that was still out from Halloween just before we headed to my mother’s home. I asked her why she was wearing a mask and she said for fun, and I was not going to deny my child her moment. When we arrived at the house and knocked on the door, it was a few moments before my mother answered and my daughter was chuckling. As the door opened she yelled “Trick or Treat.” It was the high point of her day.
She is leaving. It makes it easier to breathe and think and walk unsteadily in the sunlight. Her influence is already beginning to fade. From the shadows I hear whispers and promises and lies of what is to come but I try hard not to listen, just hoping to make it through this transition and be free of her poison without beginning to drink another. My thirst for destruction is satisfied and I would love to keep it that way. My suffering follows her like her shadow, and the sooner she is gone the sooner I can forget about it.
I only love her so that I may hurt her. It feels good sometimes to make her cry. All of her screaming and gasping accusations are fiercely honest, but none of them are as simple as her tears and wails would confess. There is not an unprovoked moment of sorrow in her, and all the damage done was either invited or demanded. She would cut me to make me respond, and throw salt in the wound to make the response acknowledge her. She wanted me to suffer, and now for her desire she is being compensated in misery and sorrow.
Let the light pass away with the rain and give me a moment to stare at nothing and contemplate everything. I need to get away from this place and serve time for my crimes in the silent jail of my mind. The introverted days will be cathartic as long as no one looks for me. I just want this smoke and ash to cover me like a coffin and dirt, to be forgotten in an unmarked grave of thought. I want to be dead to the world for a while so I can clear my head and return with clarity.
The dream is always the same, but the agents of sleep are often wearing different faces. It matters not which degenerates bear witness to sins against the heart of oblivion, as long as there are witnesses present to attest that I was there and responsible for the sights and signs of the timeless crime. They are watching me in wonder and terror, hoping that my atrocities do not leave them marked. If I blind them they will hear me, if I deafen them they will smell me, if I smoke out their sense of smell they will taste my decadence.
I was far from home as my feet continued to carry me down the train tracks. The sun was oppressive in its usual way, and I was averting my eyes from the brilliance when I saw the dog. It had been there for countless ages, rotting and leaving behind little recognition of what it was. I had never seen death so naturally progressed, so I moved closer to let my youth become acquainted. In its hollowed out rib cage there was a beehive, full of life and violence. It was the strangest and most fascinating thing I have ever seen.
I woke up in a cold sweat. I stretched out my right hand to find a bottle of whiskey that was all but empty. I did the same with my left hand to find an unconscious stripper who was all but naked. My head was pounding and my memory was hazy. I rose slowly and staggered to the bathroom trying hard not to wake her. I washed my face and drank my fill before wandering down the hall to find my keys. I slipped out in the morning light, not sure how I got there or where I was going.
We lie to each other to keep up the illusion. She is an addict who hates her drug, and I am a shepherd that hates my flock. Co-dependency is the scar that reminds us both we are alive and the light that forces us to close our eyes and try and hide from the ugliness of reality. I want to walk away and feel the sun on my face, or perhaps feel the cool wash of a clean rain on my skin. She just wants to pull the needle from her arm and forget my name. We will both fail.
I have spent too much of this night standing in the shadows and watching. She knows I am there but does not realize how much I see. She pretends as if I do not love her, so that she does not have to admit to loving me. She is afraid to let me wander too far or to be alone too long, but she is even more afraid of letting me stand at her side. So I resign myself to the spaces in between her lies and live with my own deceptions. We are sad creatures afraid to feel anything.
She is screaming with a mix of ecstasy and hatred. I am pinned beneath her with her small yet strong hands wrapped around my neck, staring into the fires of hell that are alive in her eyes. I am feeling warm and struggling to breathe. The moment is frighteningly erotic, a mix of responses wed in perverse mockery of my attraction to women. I would die for her if she would kill for me, but we both know we will see the morning together. But for now we pretend this could be the end, and it brings us closer together.
This moment of confusion is full of oppression. I want to cry as I look around me, seeing the discarded pieces of my life and wondering if I can pick them up and put them back where they belong. I have done so much damage without realizing it, and I will do so much more trying to fix it. I cannot meet the demands of a life that is built on a foundation of destruction consisting of capricious desires, but I am too stubborn and driven to admit defeat. I will keep pushing forward until dies or it kills me.
Prayer is the foreplay of forgiveness but the aftermath of crime. She kneels before me, but it does not mean she is repenting. She is performing the crimes of a decadent worship, one for which salvation is a momentary reward rather than an everlasting one. When restraint is abandoned for indulgence, guilt is replaced with ecstasy, and prudence is cast into flames like an unwanted beast, crimes of the flesh are celebrated instead of regretted. She has come to dwell in the bed of transgression, and after one night in the arms of excess she never kneel to pray again.
I am craving her as I sit here in the dark. My loneliness amplifies my want, and her coy suggestions are driving me insane. I want to seek her out and devour her, and when I am done leave her breathless and addicted, but I know that I must bide my time. She is not a momentary prize, a trophy to be taken from the mantle of another to adorn my own. She is a delicacy that would drive me to madness if I only sampled it once, and her frailty demands that her conquering is done with careful consideration.
Things will never be the same between us. She will never forgive me for walking away, and she will never forgive me for ending up where I have. Everything that she knows will be amplified by everything that she assumes, and no amount of truth or reason could erase the hurt of aftermath and presumption. We are forever torn apart, and somewhere underneath my bitterness it saddens me. I am walking away in the cool embrace of another lover, but I am looking back at the warmth of our past and I feel remorse for all of the unspoken hurt.
I need to walk away from this and forget about it. It hurts me too much to keep playing with her. She is a fire that will not consume me or be extinguished by any means. It is frustrating to constantly reach out and end up burned. It is more frustrating to be called back every time I sink away in apprehension. She is a constant punishment for my desire and a reminder that my steady confidence can still be crushed. It pains me to reflect upon it, but it pains me more to consider giving up and walking away.
It bewilders me to be desired and rejected at the same time. I fail to comprehend how she can show me such passion and still turn away from me every time I am close to her. It makes me want to scream, but I am out of words and the only sound I could release would be a far too revealing emotional admission to allow it to escape my lips. I am staring out the window watching the rain, and I know that somewhere beyond her activity is quite similar. We are wasting away apart, too complicated to be together.
She has murder in her eyes. I wish sometimes she had no eyes at all. Tonight, I like the murder because it is the only thing beautiful about her tear-streaked and makeup smeared face. The alcohol makes her look jaundiced, and the lack of nourishment makes her eyes look sunken. I wonder if she sees what she has become, or if her reflection is veiled in self-deception. Either way, it will not matter soon, after she tries what she intends I will never see her face again. I just hope she leaves a scar for me to remember her by.
If I stop moving long enough to let myself feel, I become bitterly aware of my emotional fragility. My humanity feels like a disease, and I am constantly seeking a cure. Sometimes I find the life prescribed solutions simply treat the symptoms, and the suppressed illness can come flooding back like a plague determined to infect anything that resembles happiness. The only real cure is to kill the host, and then defeating the parasite is useless. So I sit here and wallow in my misery, trying to smile through guilt-laced eyes. I am so afraid of myself that it hurts.
I had too much to drink and I could not really see the room around me anymore. The music was too loud and the floor was wet with the residue of this human condition. More than one person was lying in their own vomit, being stepped over or having a drink spilled on them in complete disregard. I looked at her face again and watched her lips move softly. I could see the tears welling in her eyes and thought about how pretty her skull must look. She was so sincere slurring words that I could not hear or interpret.
Like a whispered conspiracy, her name buzzed through my social network for days and perhaps will continue to do so for weeks. With an impression cast like an encompassing silhouette, imposing yet pleasantly embracing, she has become the object of poorly concealed curiosity amongst the players and stagehands of my elaborate show. For all those uneducated eyes, the secret that her true beauty could not possibly be reflected in captured images was elusive at best. Those pictures may tease and poison the mind's eye, but their deception only shrouds the truth that they pale in comparison to her tangible form.
The phone rings in the dead silence of night. Before I look at the glowing orange screen I know it is her, and before I answer I know what ugly words she will speak. I wonder if she will be crying this time. I answer with my usual harsh advice and know that she will praise my brutal honesty and cry out for my company. And like a forsaken savior I will go to her, to ease her pain with the opiate of every desperate girl. I will indulge her depressed passion and be salvation in the form of sin.
He has learned the art of instigation and has turned my blade against me. For all of the problems I have caused him and the complications I have created for him he is paying me back and doing it with a smile. I could feel contempt or concern, but it is far too impressive to see him at work to be caught up in the consequences or trouble myself with stopping him. I will face whatever comes my way, and when he least expects it I will throw it back at him. He does not know what he plays with.
We will never be the same again. There is blood everywhere and someone has traced hearts and haikus about violent romance on the surface of everything left standing. Nothing can cover the marks left by our lust, and nothing could drown out the echoes of our passion that permeate the air as a constant reminder of our crimes. You will walk unsteadily away, hoping to forget and be forgiven, but your hunger will be too much now and you will come crawling back in time. You will always crawl back, and I will indulge your unspoken desires with savage delight.
The Tip Jar