Concordia Discors

2200. In this midsummer's night, I was half-asleep, half-alive, straddling on the boundary of consciousness. A deathly feeling overcame me, as if the portal to the afterlife, that of headaches and fantasy, had opened. My eyelids felt heavy as ever, lacking any liveliness in that which could be described as life. It is the most morose of them all, this feeling of waking up to darkness, as if one cruel dream is not enough. I lie on my tombstone.

But in the distance I saw light. At the end of the tunnel...

It was piercing, unpleasant, intruding. It yells its brilliance at me, incessantly emitting its blinding brightness. It was yellow, yellow of the gold and fame of the future. You will be a millionaire; you will be forever in power; you shall prove to them you are the tallest of them all! The glow of wealth, the dream of the businessman, the tricks of the actuary, the uncivil engineer... I shall build the empire, with ambition and not procrastination. Not procrastination.

I knew not of the yellow tint, but not much later did I realize the white glow shining through the yellow light. White with passion, with conscience, with compassion, with charity. Be eloquent, be wise, and persuade. Glow in the others' eyes. The yellow light seemed to be supportive of this white aura. In fact, it is the basis of this glow. Why have you not seized me. Why have you procrastinated.

And, shameless at the boundary, was the faint red halo, like a circle of blood for the ritual of witches, the most evil of them all, the most tempting of them all. Come and embrace me, said the crimson ring, and possess me. Come here, and take me in your hands. I am warm. I am yours. Commit your infidel sin! Why are you hesitating!

I felt my soul being dragged out of my very head, onto the floor, slowly creeping for the eerie concoction of light, like a beast preparing for its victim, like a snake crawling to its food. My body was limp, helpless, as I watched my soul get abducted by the node of taint, of the chemistry between evil and ambition, of love, of killing...

0628, the clock strikes, at the strangest time of all. I found myself without a blanket, overslept, with severe headache. The light at my bathroom never got turned off. I sat up, and proceeded to wash my face.

At the bathroom.

I have seen

I have seen the cosmos go
In elliptical orbits
Every principle is in control
So aesthetic, so pleasing.

I have seen the rivers flow
Undisturbed and unreserved
Words pour out, ideas are sent
So eloquent, so moving.

I have seen the east winds blow
Bringing life to the land
Deeds of kindness, seeds of love
So impressive, so touching.

I have seen the tempests brew
In roaring speeds it tears through
One second here, and the other not
So powerful, so daunting.

I have seen the sunflowers grow
Towards the sunlight they strive
Composed melodies, of love and life and joy
So elegant, so praiseworthy.

Then, I watch the tree of life
Bearing fruit, yet turning black
While I walk along the dwindled streets
Into the etherized evening, I go.

The Archer

A man
who speaks the language of mathematics
Stands brave in front of the tide
Of humans, of nature, and of life.

And the tempest of ignorance shall rise
And the tremors of the ground shall rage
And the darkness of unfettered wrath shall spread
In a false face of aristocracy

But stand true you shall
Stand true in the face of the revolver
Though reason is not on your side
Nor has it ever repaid your efforts.

Draw out the bow you shall
Release the unrestrained arrow of light
Trust your instincts, trust your conscience
For the shadow of lies you shall dispel.

Play on, play on, and play on, the monologue!
in the visage of the so-called man
Laugh in the presence of the reaper
Smite in the tangle of the poison ivy.

In the age of flowing
Rivers flow red, leaves grow black
Amongst the lurid tarn of humanity
Where, where is the bullet of truth.

March

To march, to proceed, to kill. What are we marching towards? Why, to the miserable fog that we call "spring". This thick covers all life, overgrown, decaying or stalling, from the bloody swords and scepters that we call M and S in our language. The strangling ivy wraps around the great tree, the tree that burns. The grey cubicle, that I once called home, has turned into a battlefield, of lush flytraps, of undead nightshades, glaringly displaying itself amidst countless mindless corpses.

What irony that fills one's face with unyielding smoke of confusion. March is the month of death, or morose. Grey skies weep upon the graves of the sacrifice to the greed of mankind, to the collapsing walls of the cubicle, to the history that is heavier than ever. Endless rain pour from the white mesh of pure melancholy, attempting to dilute the bloodshed, yet in vain, for the bloodshed has lasted for hundreds of eons, longer than the memory that anyone alive possesses. This river of heme has flown for eternity, that while we see it, hear about it every day, we simply walk past it, contributing to the flow of this acrid rust.

Every March is when the metallic gates of the enfer open, when the reaper himself comes to claim the lives of the unfortunate, though this is not necessary at all, for the minds have already been betrayed and lost in the forgotten woods. Simply wave your sickle, and the heads will follow. Save yourself time, and indulge in apathy.

March is the month of apathy, of indulgence, of wastefulness. The East wind blows, away from the vast ocean to the already oppressive shoreline, sticking drops of tear on all walls. The grey walls of the cubicle then seems even more depressing. Injustice rise from the ground, like the fog that emerges from the endless ocean of puddles, blinding all men beneath the sun, or the lack of.

March is a nightmare of thirty-one days, where all joy lays waste to unyielding evils, inundating the earth, the air, and the sky. Yet March goes on every year. Painful, but fateful. Unfortunate, yet determined. Ghastly, though permeating.

The cries of the fog
The sobs of the walls
The wailing of the cubicle

Overcome
I recognize none
But fear.