Saturday, May 01, 2004

Repent What Is Past

In a sun drenched stroll through the blooming gardens, pondering the nearing fatality of an old man's life, I was amazed at the tame discourses I managed to bundle together, otherwise known as the Disease. My work was a cancer that infected this brave new world, places that made nightwatchmen at cemeteries yawn at the first twinkle of sunlight. My thoughts have infected thousands and yet I sat slumped upon a stool, warmed up for decades and decades before me with other cursed dreams and hands dipped in blood, now clutching poorly cleaned glasses of scotch by unambitious bartenders, with head nods instead of real answers. I stood up showing her how tall I was, daring her to show her grace while she unknowingly spurred my natural senses. And she playfully whispered, words and sounds that branded the heart. My pranks and her grace were not enough to make me fear a hallway full of stranded ghosts, wandering from this world to the next with little wisdom and aimlessly like the recklessness of a 17 year-old skipping algebra class to go smoke cheap weed behind the supermarket.

Mesmerized by her entrance, and sensibly in grief, a weepy Ophelia showered the stage with flowers... "Rosemary for remembrances... Pansies for thoughts... and Herb of Grace of Sundays."

My thoughts had arrived at withered ends. No more to contemplate. Wretched farewells were not my way of expressing good fortune to my departing friends. At your age, love humbles judgments. To live under the wet blanket of a distasteful family, one is unable to forget. Visitations during holidays bewilder and anger me. Fighting souls and dysfunctional alcoholics doomily look upon each other, incestuously glancing into mirrors from time to time, and checking their pulses to insure the madness will not continue.

"Repent what is past," that's what Hamlet uttered to his hysterical Mother before he disappeared into the misty night. Will the heavens welcome me into their open arms when it's my time to be judged? Will all my sins add up to an afterlife of banality and powerless remote controls. A beast no more? Anyone with Godlike reason and spited scruples could honor my struggles, but condemn the remainder of my means and strength and will, all of which obliterated by gross examples of my misfortune. My vows are unanswerable. My slanderous words have been misinterpreted and thrust out into the airwaves, hijacked without mercy by fanatical snail-eating zealots.

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