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Cold, but not Dead

YayoJan 20, 2019, 2:31:06 AM

As I walk through the empty cold halls of my mansion, I reminisce about a long gone past. A past full of music, dance and color. A past of laughing voices and happy chatting. A past of warm greetings and comforting friendships.

This past had ended long ago and has been replaced by a melancholic sadness choking my hollow soul. Whatever laughter there might have been was swallowed up and forgotten by the very rooms they first were heard from. No more warm greetings, but the sickening grip of cold hands of vacant ghosts of yonder. Everyone I once knew had departed long ago. Departed to a place I would never go to. How wretched of them for leaving me here. How heartless, but alas, it is not their fault.

There was no music to lift up the spirit, which is not surprising. Why should one listen to music, if there is no one to accompany you in its rhythmic embrace? Like a mother hugging her child, or like a lover falling into the arms of the very person she entrusted her life to. Instead, the dusty piano was just standing in the corner of the old dining hall, never to be used again. The Grim Reaper would be its last musician; stroking the keys of death; playing the music of a life longed for by many, but achieved by few. 

Without Music, dancing becomes a chore. Dancing, the wondrous sign of the stream of existence. A stream no one can see, but is there anyway. Flowing all the time without halt or pause, without pity for those left behind or those it drags along. Dancing is just the human expression of the very stream dictating our being. 

Just as the last dance was done, life had stopped and the stream moved away. The stream of existence passed me by. It had forgotten me. And while it dragged along many of the wonderful dancers whose company I once enjoyed, it left me here. Here. Here in this ghastly house, surrounded by old furniture, old appliances, old...things. Things that will never dance and are not concerned by the worries of those cursed with life; or so I thought.

The stream of life, whose movements had ridden themselves of my presence, was taunting me. The house around me. It is tearing the walls a part, its chewing away at the integrity, as if to say: "See what I can do? I can absorb everything into my endless void. Not you though. You will have to stay here. How does this treat you?"

How despicable of it to mock me. Making fun of me from a position of higher power. Ripping open the wounds, forcing me to spend sleepless days, spitting in my face with no goal in mind. I hate it. I would tell it to leave me alone. I don't want it to leave me alone though. I yearn for its presence. I want it. I need it. Addicted to a drug I have never even tried. A drug never once possessed, but still causing me pain. Pain of a magnitude which I can not express. 

 Thus I am walking through the empty vacant halls, screaming in agony. Screaming out to a bitter God. A God who punished me. A God of relentless anger. What can one do, if God chooses you for a punishment of which you do not even know the charge of? 

How I would love to once again feel warmth. Not the warmth of a God who abandoned me. Not the warmth of existence leaving me to wallow in endless agony and mockery.


The only warmth anyone can trust. It has evaded me. It has divorced itself from my body. And now...

I am cold, but not Dead. 


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