Judgment

I have made up my mind. To no longer resist the inexorable, ruthless progress of this soul-eating wall of granite eclipsing the sun of my hope and happiness. If the reality of my life is of cloister bound interiority, that is what the mirror of my soul must reflect. 

Dreams die. And because these now lifeless dreams painting the future never come to pass, snuffing them out is rather like a child her mother prematurely flushes out from her womb as debris – unformed, unviable dream given away to float in eternal limbo by parents who turn their eyes firmly away, convince themselves by believing that they are, in fact, being courageous and admirably strong by being dispassionate in a manner the most ruthless grandmaster of chess would be proud of.

Love is not exempt from euthanasia. Imagination, you ask? The musician who wrote that song was shot dead in cold blood a long, long time back. Nine millimetres of lead that tore apart hope and flesh, followed soon after by a period of numb, traumatised shock that sent the dreamer unstoppably careening towards the abyss where the lonely ones walk away to die.

The scimitar cleaved. In the ecstasy of moving on, the new lovers forgot all about the tiresome and frankly boring tales that damned storyteller had told them the other evening. A lip on a lip exploring new worlds brooks no distraction.


Meanwhile, the radio no one ever listened to played a song.