Obituaries: The oldest of the whores

[Sepia]

We thought it mattered in the shadow. Where all is drained of their context, empty husks are what is left, we are peering into it every day we breathe the air as we go looking for the hipsters. The elusive angels that define so much we don't know but where we put no idea of power for their power is different, effective but working for the short haul, seeing the flesh for what it is and nothing more, nothing for nothing. We see them every day in their non authentic fashion, sparks of long ago dead matter in their eyes and they are hollow creatures for they shy away from life, they do not walk towards it. They dream it and hope for it but eventually when presented with the chance we will say no.

I thought there was a disease growing in all of us but it was only me. You know how these stories go for this is the medical story, the same story they tell around the fire as another camaro wraps itself around a phonepole, I'm sorry officer but I just didn't see it coming. I was in the later stages of it, they didn't know what it was and they tried to treat it and every time they did, the meds stopped working earlier and earlier. All the women are mad in this asylum, it is a putrid heart inside the holiest of churches, sunk in a deep trench. They were the magdalene sisters and we wanted to rid us of their blemish and this is our story, we destroyed what we deemed not fitting with the current trends and we built a new world on top of it.

With time, the anarchists among us lost hope, went into a communistic state of denial, verging on nazi terrain but those were always more different than the others of us but the anarchists wept with their v for vendetta in hand for they saw that the rubble others may build from is poisoned by the old ideals and magick, still written in the grisly stone. The truth was different though, for we expected miracles. We gave them the tools and the rubble but we did not train them, we did not leave a foundation other than cryptic words that only are valuable when  understood, like a flight instruction manual written in hindi.

The music is grating through the speakers one story up above, the words that leave the membrane is something old I haven't heard in a while and I remember a past I'd forgotten, realizing this I cry as I watch the postcards and photographs hanging on my wall, revealing the past I wish to take with me in the grave, what I want to be remembered as and with wanting is what I will be remembered as. When the loneliness creeps in, comfort is always the easiest of safeties. We are allowed to wallow in self-pity as we mourn, we are allowed to sit there in that old baroque chaiselounge with a blank expression on our face, the world sees us mourning a relative but all we can think about is ourself.

They say we're born into the light and we creep towards darkness before we find the light again. We must be tested, we must try to die before we see light, we must attempt to shuffle the deck and play our cards anew. It's going to get worse before it gets any better and it's always darkest before the sun rises and when we almost die and find some sort of illumination, it's not always that the weird turns pro. Do you recognize an epiphany? Do you care about it or act on it? Do you change or does the world? Is anything static? Is everything so dynamic that it appears to be static or the other way around and how did i even get here and should i just marry this beautiful-


The trains are always leaving nowadays, we see them glide off into the horizon, weary pilots and stewardesses, businessmen on their way to broker some deal, sleeping backpackers hoping that their next destination will be nirvana and some of us just made the jump. We leapt. Through the air we soared on feathered serpents till our eyes were bleeding and we almost died but we came back, all shook up and shattered, punished and heartless we were as they saw us, declining illumination, a part of the godhead. It wasn't our way, we needed something new, something fresher than the book of should and we co-existed with them as they felt let down, sorry for themselves and sorry for our treachery, frater frater, why do you sleep?

Should we wrest with our demons and angels and become what that war made us into or should we ignore them, co-exist with them in a symbiotic relationship, stealing from them as they steal from us? Does it matter how we do it as long as we get the job done? It does, doesn't it? The question that will always exist, the curse that will linger when all our bones have been buried, the same question that will torment us in the afterlife as we are ferried across the styx, reviewing our old lives, faded polaroids and postcards as we ask ourselves why

[Thurnez Isa]

[Cramulus]

this one meanders through some interesting territory, but I have trouble following it


do the angels and devils
relate to
the disease? the hipsters?

there's a lot of light/dark imagery, but it still feels a little undeveloped, though maybe that's just me glossing over nuance


still a great piece, despite the wandering muddiness, which may have been the point to begin with. 

[Thurnez Isa]

I really like the muddiness (minus the 5th paragraph for some reason)

It might be really a taste thing though too
:-/

[Requia ☣]

Kai, is it ok if I steal this (some editing may be involved) for posting on Atheist sites?

[Sepia]

Kai, is it ok if I steal this (some editing may be involved) for posting on Atheist sites?

what

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Kai, is it ok if I steal this (some editing may be involved) for posting on Atheist sites?

what

SSSHHH

Kai is the decider!

[Sepia]

Kai, is it ok if I steal this (some editing may be involved) for posting on Atheist sites?

what

SSSHHH

Kai is the decider!

ah

[Kai]

Kai, is it ok if I steal this (some editing may be involved) for posting on Atheist sites?

what

SSSHHH

Kai is the decider!