Derangement in Arms
The slow, methodical quickening gave way to the sudden rush of an ember, a flame of which life, was one of its many fuels. It burned bright, but ugly, and there was no arson or charred corpse that would be enough to put it out.
What exists there, a born shadow, still interested in dying.
What doesn’t live there, a simple creature that has lived for centuries in its own thoughts, always faltering at the notion of following something that somebody else established.
A swallow interested, not in the greatest of motions, but in the destruction of everything that exists beyond the fire.
Both things look at each other, through the fire, waiting for the other one to make a move. One will move first and the other one will die, one will beautifully kill the other, and wind the mind game that exists.
In the existence of both, one says, I will creep up on you and kill whatever there exists, but not in the physical sense, but in the emotional one. I will never cry, dry, lie because there is no feeling I will want to hide, it will all be expressed openly so that others can feel them with me. A pleasant muttering will be held, and one will believe it for strange reasons.
The flame continues and it reaches the sky which is made of hearts. One cries in horror at the thoughts unleashed, at the things that may happen.
A wish just like any other, one wants to be free, and one wants to be locked still.
What is the best way to defeat something that wants to be killed, that needs to be understood but has forgotten how to live.
What is the worst way to exist, when somebody moves accordingly to what others say, and the fires continue, and the heat surrounds, and machinations, sometimes unknown or difficult, haven’t stopped, they move strangely.
Away from yesterday, I still remember that I wanted to be someone else, that the thing I became is not who I desired to be. Can you believe it? That one would throw away its own existence so willingly to please something else, imaginary sometimes, at the cost of one’s own peace of mind.
What is the peace of mind that exists in the heart of the creature, however, that is so sickened from the entrails upwards, and slowly dissipates.
The flames rise like the life rises, like the emotion tenses, like the hands carry the burden of an emotion that was not supposed to exist.
Conflicting moments, they still trap inside me, entangling themselves in a way that is natural, like everything that exists is natural, and a wound too, that cannot be healed by normal means.
If, and only if, I understand that very little of me will continue, that I have to face who I am, and be vulnerable and still, a small wonder that has nothing to lose but itself. Who will ever believe that I am the same person if I don’t change and if I do change and if everything continues, simply, without me, with me?