Are we destined to become like the generations before us? Is it foretold in some place dark and unnatural that we repeat the mistakes we’ve bore witness to? Are the Fates the weavers of our demise? I don’t know. Yet in the inky, moonless night, I believe so strongly it makes me sick, that we have only ourselves to blame for our sadness and misfortune. Still, it seems like an endless struggle, a tugging between a foolish tradition of drifting and a plaintive desire to remain intact.
I’ve seen the ashes and smelled the bitter smoke of those burned bridges.
My fingertips have blistered as I came to realize it was I who lit the match.
What would I dare say if they were listening? If they spoke the same ominous and brutal language, I know so well. Lives can be separate but still entwined. You needn’t choose one or the other. It is not in our natures to pursue the hidden, but we should do it nonetheless. I would ask if we don’t bother to save one another, then why bother at all? Stop crouching behind the rotting decay of disease, anger, seductively busy schedules. Speak even when you have forgotten your name or your purpose. Cling to the belief that if not for the people in our portraits we would not be who we are.
Whether because of them or in spite of them, they are our beginning.
This is the easy part.
In that inky, moonless night, there will be demons. Their claws will dig into your flesh, their teeth tearing for your throat. They will be strong, their dark eyes will know no pity or remorse and they will know your heartbeat from a thousand others. Hiding will do no good. As you stumble, realize that running will only make your bones ache, the evil has already caught up with you.
Because it is you.
The bloody lining will be suffocating and intoxicating at the same time. The taste in your mouth as sweet as it is metallic. But you mustn’t succumb.
There are still those who remember who you were. Before you ran, before you knew the names of the creatures that stalk you. You are within their memory. In their knowledge, you will find your salvation.
That, little brother, is the hard part.
Bleeding and full of anguish their light will guide you to the dawn, to your home.
But first, you must ask.
~~Jessica Fortunato 2013~~
I’ve seen the ashes and smelled the bitter smoke of those burned bridges.
My fingertips have blistered as I came to realize it was I who lit the match.
What would I dare say if they were listening? If they spoke the same ominous and brutal language, I know so well. Lives can be separate but still entwined. You needn’t choose one or the other. It is not in our natures to pursue the hidden, but we should do it nonetheless. I would ask if we don’t bother to save one another, then why bother at all? Stop crouching behind the rotting decay of disease, anger, seductively busy schedules. Speak even when you have forgotten your name or your purpose. Cling to the belief that if not for the people in our portraits we would not be who we are.
Whether because of them or in spite of them, they are our beginning.
This is the easy part.
In that inky, moonless night, there will be demons. Their claws will dig into your flesh, their teeth tearing for your throat. They will be strong, their dark eyes will know no pity or remorse and they will know your heartbeat from a thousand others. Hiding will do no good. As you stumble, realize that running will only make your bones ache, the evil has already caught up with you.
Because it is you.
The bloody lining will be suffocating and intoxicating at the same time. The taste in your mouth as sweet as it is metallic. But you mustn’t succumb.
There are still those who remember who you were. Before you ran, before you knew the names of the creatures that stalk you. You are within their memory. In their knowledge, you will find your salvation.
That, little brother, is the hard part.
Bleeding and full of anguish their light will guide you to the dawn, to your home.
But first, you must ask.
~~Jessica Fortunato 2013~~
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