A last obituary

[Sepia]

It should be like this. The beginning should be brittle, silent, a build-up only the people in the know realize is happening. They realize it happens but they do not think about it until later on, when life can be seen retrospectively, when time and space unfolds and let us watch our lives happen and we think ah, that was how it was and as we are lost in the now, forever thinking we are moths and the world is our perfect sun we find fate to ring true in every action we remember, everything that was ever seemingly larger than our own lives was meant to be for it is so flawless.

The churches toll for the men and women who are gathered in their houses, some are here by tradition, others by belief but most are confused but confusion has never been a positive trait in our civilization, confusion is something we hide underneath the garments that mask who everyone else think we are. Some of us pray as we sit in the house of the lord, some of us are profane by simply sitting there, listening to the greatest sacrifice ever made and simply wondering when they're going to be less conventional as all we yearn for is a beefed up speech, fitting for our time, something we can understand. We feel distanced and dying, in drunken stupors we cling to the last fragments of laughter to make us survive another day.

"It is not that life is depressing that makes it unbearable, it is that it's humorous." - Henrik Ibsen, paraphrased from memory

This was how it should have begun, this was the correct entrance, this was the way to begin it, this was the way to start it all so it would make sense from the now up until the then. The fury of our lives, the streaming torrents of the young man, 24, recently educated with a masters degree in biochemistry sits home in his parents basement, spends his days on mmos and weed, decaying and falling away from humanity. His parents see education spoilt, his friends see a man they wish they could reconnect with, a good man before he spent too much time infront of the books, gathering information and piecing together a thesis that gave him many opportunities for work but he was tired of working, he was tired of playing for their work and their play happened on their terms, he felt like the whitest nigger shooting hoops and after he attained his goal, the thing that had driven him, he realized this as he sat in the recliner, killing internet dragons and ripping the bong, both at the same time. Nobody told the young man that there existed possibilities of a different world, a different reality so he settled with the devil he knew so well.

The dance is slow in the beginning, the dancers aren't used to their partners, it's a rehearsal so there are no smiles, there are no distant gazes into the horizon, there is only the smell of chalk and old sweat. They look haunted where they move, practicing steps that will garner them applause and appraise as they travel to the sun, biting into the empty air, eyes abalze with the fire their forefathers put there, they put us here, the old gods is the whispers you hear from the stage from tufted feet and our angels are flying, the thrones are ascending to the physical heavens, the one that is not a part of every stone, log or human on the planet, some will say after it has happened that the angels were fleeing from the being of god, permeating everything we've dreamt, seen and touched, here it is, here it lies, here lies god, broken and shallow at our knees with his brightest stars running not with a smile upon their faces but a frown as if they're doing maintenance work on old equipment, a shit job for shit pay.

We quell the souls uprising, we take the rebellion and we dismantle it, fragment it from madness into logic and reasoning and as our urges grow into thoughts something is lost in the translation inside us and inside the wrinkles of our soul we find Ibsens devil, compromise, we do not fight it, nor do we think about it, we accept it as we flee, we run as fast as we can run, beads of sweat trickling down our foreheads, losing peripheral vision, multi or non coloured dots appear on our eyes and we think we're going to collapse but we bite the teeth and we run further, we run so far into the darkness that it becomes light again, time passes, aeons evolve through the mitochondrial dna and the story goes on without us as we emerge from the twilight. We feel we have been tested and found worthy, we return to where we came from, we emerge from the dark and the light and back into the fold, finding the dunes of our skin deserts barren and desolate.

[Faust]

I always find your pieces so unsettling sepia, they make me feel things I never feel otherwise.

[Cramulus]

WOW.... delicately and beautifully written. especially the last two paragraphs, they come thundering in on kitten feet. Is this truly the last obituary?

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Loved the rant.  Hated the title.

There better be more.   

[Sepia]

http://www.tindeck.com/listen/sqwz

[Kai]

Yes. That was exactly perfect. Great quality, and you stayed the right distance away from the mic the whole time.