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1 Upon a small hill overlooking a dusty deep-south American town wrapped in a linen shirt, haunched over with not one congregant in sight, was a fading God. It was perfectly poetic, which of course did not go unnoticed by Him. It was never initially about beginning some Homeric odyssey in search of true internal peace, but He'd be lying if He didn't admit the idea was appealing.
The heat hung in the air despite his marginally increased altitude. It felt sticky on his skin, and He had to occasionally wipe his brow with the linen shirt. It was fine though, the moment smacked of pathetic fallacy. If you didn't get that, He thought, you really ought not to be Here.
He reflected upon His past, as people do in these moments of life-affirmation. He considered friends He had lost, some all to literally. He considered those who had been no more than words and yet with those words had affected Him, had caused Him to branch off from His predetermined course and express Himself. Whose words had carried meaning, vibrant, emphatic meaning. He hoped that his words had done the same.
He reflected upon the places he had left behind, the chandeliers and sweet candles. It wasn't in the fine food or wine, it was in the details. It was in the marbled patterns and soft-gold handles no longer pressed with his finger prints. It was in the shine, the brilliant diamond refractions and the devil-scorned devotees rapturous in applause but all the while nonchalant in thought. It was the Cathedrals of His art, the stink, the stench of sweat and alcohol. The thick vinegar smell of brown tar burning and the warm orgasm of mind and body upon inhalation.
He thought of it all, of what was life, but life never thought of Him anymore. He was just another carcass pulled up by the side of the river from underneath the bridge. Just another memorial to a broken man who altogether deserved no sympathy, and yet seemed to be the sole emotional crutch of the losers, the down-and-outs, the deadbeats of a society that didn't give a fuck. He didn't mind that too much either. /1 Edited by user 22 July 2014 23:38:43(UTC)
| Reason: Not specified |
“He in his madness prays for storms, and dreams that storms will bring him peace” |
 3 users thanked Charlie for this useful post.
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