Friday, June 9, 2017

Hidden Faces in the Dead

I've been listening to a lot of Sinatra lately.

It's odd how distant one feels from their last life; looking in through the shattered, smokey windowpanes, a ghost hovering beyond anyone's reach. Odd how easy it is to look in, yet how repelling the sights become. A draw to... nothing.

It's almost jarring. I wasn't a fool; or was I? I never thought I were cheating myself; although, thought may not have been my main priority. There is no connection to what I see through the windowpanes any longer; the man's path is no longer one I can relate to, in that I had done so myself. It is no longer a sense of failure - now, perhaps, a sense of pity, in that the reflection captured in this time capsule was so eagerly fragile and whimsically frail. A colorful, lightly painted eggshell, glimmering in the soft sunlight; knowing full well it's ability to be destroyed with the smallest of winds.

And, yes, this remembrance is nothing more than a spirit in and of itself.

Laying alone in these wee, small hours of the morning... It makes one pine for anything. Something. God only knows what - but Holy, is that unknown reward.

The shaking, harmless armature of a human has - as expected - crumpled, and died. From his carcass emerged a decidedly more upbeat, proud, and even imposing figure. As I lay in the moonlit drink, I know this is a certainty... and, a warm one, at that. But now, where will he go? How will he get there? And above all - how blessed is he to, at last, fulfill the dream of self-awareness of which he never knew he harbored?

And - how blessed, perhaps, shall this new expanse of a world become?

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