2004-02-08
Gold Dust
The sun beams down and bliss is only a gentle whisper that should remain unspoken for fear of its destruction. I keep asking myself what else is there in this life, if there's more than just what has surrounded me for the past few years. Life should not be consistency, rather it should be like the wind on a Tuscan plain--mellow and fulfilling, dancing in all directions.
I stood there, with the rain pouring down on me as I shivered. My heart aches once more, and I don't even know why. There must be some way in which I can express this torment, a way in which I can let out a piercing scream of agony through the ink in my letters.
I am a ghost drifting by in this glass--this wretched and tempting glass. Whether there is vast emptiness beyond, I do not care, just as long as I know that I can leave any time. The stream will not comfort me, it will only add to my melancholy. The heart-shaped leaves that form a green cobweb at the top of the trees have lost their luster.
Each morning when the sun refuses to peer forth, I open my curtains and look at my dried sunflower tree. The branches in the trees are so naked and void of life. Everything is silver, and calm. How calm am I when I sleep? I die and come back alive, and each morning I feel complacent. Why then, does this feeling creep up on me like night upon dusk? The calloused hands grip my heart and steal the breath so that I begin to gasp for air.
I wouldn't normally admit this--I truly wouldn't, but the idea of loneliness becomes more vivid each day. I want so much to tear my soul free of those oppressive shackles of hate, contempt, and bitterness. It slowly kills me and my being becomes the young rose frostbitten by the unforgiving cold. Its smooth luster is now like a glass, and the hands that once caressed velvet now caress sharp ice--that is my internal self-portrait, painstakingly sculpted by the world's two greatest artists--life, and myself. One is the teacher, and the other the pupil. What the teacher has taught, the pupil will now use to create. How will I die?
I am haunted by the image of my own death. I fear for that dirt to press down on my coffin. I fear that I will be put in a coffin--surrounded by satin as my cold and stiff corpse lies there--not able to move, not even conscious. I never even existed...good God I no longer matter. If this is how it must end, why is life worth living? I cannot commit suicide, even if I did contemplate it once. I am much to coward, instead, I will endure this torture. A sword, with a blade so sharp as to slice stone, stabs deeper into me and I endure...
I don't want the dirt to press my coffin down, I don't want my limbs to grow yellow and stiff. I don't even want to live, and sometimes I hope that everything will turn black and there will be nothingness.
What if, however, the minute my last breath escapes, my corpse were to desintegrate and become gold dust? The wind will carry me, and then I can make the perennial leaves dance and sigh. I could caress the flower petals, and I could pass between the lips of two lovers. Another girl, in some other time will walk during the summer and the spring, and lastly, during winter. Her fingernails will be stained with the ink of her quills, and she will write about me until she too becomes the wind.
I don't like endings...