Ishtory

What is it that allows us to spend no more than a single second looking into the darkness of our own hearts before fear itself pushes us away from the very thing which we have come to examine? Is it the certain knowledge that we will most certainly be no match for the things which lurk deep in the souls of most men and therefore deep in the souls of some of our number? How many persons can we profess to be without giving credence to the idea that each of us suffer our own unique afflictions and that the commonness of our common maladies serves only to mark us as one and the same, not many, but one, a minion of a deranged and sweetly corrupted mind's vision of a flawed perfect reality.

Lash out. The silence like darkness serving only to stifle the few gasps of precious creativity left in the shallows of a once deep well. Cry. For those who are losing that which they knew they could never really have. Piece of mind, peace of soul, pieces of little things we do control, slipping from our stolen grip like memories of dreams from our waking moments. Lonely is the man who lives only for himself. Lonely is the dog who lives only for his master. Lonely is the world which keeps on spinning while everyone in it wishes only to stand still.

Severed from the body of errors to which it had previously given life the idle heart beats in a slow rhythmic staccato calling out to someone, anyone, to give it purpose. Fear fills the void left by once lingering necessity. Objects at rest cower from the inevitable.

Take comfort in the knowledge that people such as we exist so that you may feel better about yourself.

There is no light...we run on.