Sunday, June 10, 2018

Handker Chief

I hate it in here.
It's dark and wet. I'm wet.
I'm accompanied by things unworthy of my great heritage. The crumbled candy wrap, the coins of petty value, the surrounding lint and hair. A key amongst sesame seeds. Has this pocket ever been emptied?
Why did I end up here? I thought I deserved the world.
Because I haven't always been a napkin. No. I was made for more. I used to be proud and brave and ruthless. Once, I was a flag.
My colors flew above bloody fields of war.
White for freedom.
Red for justice.
Black for God.
Like ants they would gather below me. Worshiping little followers seeking guidance, seeking truth.
I was king.
The real true king who had outlived long bloodlines of mortal leaders. They were all just tools. Facilitators of my glorious conquest.
I stuck my pole into countless generals' lifeless chests and my radiance spread above their lands. Got into their people's souls and minds, and claimed it all for me.
So, I grew bigger.
And then, I wanted more.
I wanted truth. A sole constant connecting humanity with unbreakable shackles. I found out, money does that.
I wanted to be the protector. In the name of peace and in the name of knowing better. In the name of balance and equality. I will be the one to take care of everything. Know my name and I will gladly embrace the fame.
I wanted liberty. The freedom to speak your own mind. To believe in yourself and do your best, serving under my resolute direction. I discovered the raw power emanating from millions of mindless vessels. How could I reject that?
I saw dead heads offered to dead gods and dead flags offered to the flames. Because I was The One. And if you're not with me you are against me. If you carry the false colors of deceit you shall fear my righteous wrath. All shall embrace my truthful ideals. All will kneel under my ever-consuming shadow.
But then again, why did I feel so used?
My freedom, was inside a cell filled with nothing but decaying corpses. My justice, was in form of cries and pain. My God, was never by my side. It was just me. Carried around like a glorified excuse for crime.
Soon, my colors were replaced. My legacy archived in the history department of a dusty library. A legacy traveling through eternity gathering distortion and grime to become something much different. But even for its the errors and lies, it will probably never include anything about the drunken breath or the endless snot I have to tolerate these days.
Maybe, it's for the best.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Candle

Some nights the chandlers would come.
They would take me in my sleep and do things on me.
Tied on a wooden altar, I could only stare at their bleak, static faces, as they scrutinized my body.
The one who doesn't speak, always cared for my perfect alignment against the altar. My hands touching my thighs, my knees and ankles touching together.
The one who never talks, carried a heavy, leather bag. The metallic tools contained within were carefully arranged along an invisible surface. Even though, I could not turn my head to look at them, I knew they were pointed at me.
The third one, the one who only smiles, she would just stay unmoving in front of my face. Eyeless and white. Like trying to distract me from everything about to happen.
The tools would then start to drill and carve my ears' insides. The three chandlers were miners of a rare resource, only found beyond my eardrums. The tiny metallic picks, effortlessly slashed and tore apart the walls of my flesh tunnels. As the precious earwax was harvested, bit by bit, I was paid back in pain. Piercing, sonic pain more unbearable to hear than feel.
I never knew I had so much of it inside me.
After what seemed like an eternity of punishment for a sin I knew I had committed, I felt cleansed. They would put the chunks of wax in a large cauldron, and leave me to wake up to the deafening ambiance of a questionable reality.
The same thing would happen for many more nights. And now, the cauldron was overflowing with little parts of me.

* * *

Tonight, the chandlers came again.
The one who doesn't speak, hanged me by my hair on a large wooden pole. I felt the burning pain of my scalp coming off, but the hair would not break. I twitched and flailed, just to make the pain grow. So, I remained still. Like a fake doll, with fake tears.
The one who never talks, lit up a big fire underneath me and put the wax filled cauldron on top of it. As my ears' wax started to melt, burning the soles of my naked feet, I cried in agony. But the pathetic sound coming out of my mouth, only made me realize my helplessness.
Then, I was lowered down to the boiling wax.
And it burned.
It burned so much.
I felt my flesh liquify and come off. Dipped inside the viscous mass, my fragile body's meat melted. It became one with the wax.
What they dragged out of the cauldron, was not me. The tall wax sculpture vaguely resembling a man, was a candle. A candle with a wick of bones. Still, alive enough to think. Alive enough to feel.
When the one who only smiles appeared, she carried a torch. She sat above me, and while setting my head on fire, she spoke inside my mind in my mother's voice. She spoke with her unmoving smile, repeating an oddly familiar phrase.
You should clean your ears, sweetie.”
The flames engulfed me and I started to melt once more.
I should have listened.

Saturday, March 31, 2018

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Ants

Ants came while I was asleep.
They took my left eyebrow.
Carried over and planted all the hair above my right one. Now, I have just one big eyebrow. It doesn't feel right.
It's uneven. Asymmetrical. Odd.
I find myself leaning to my right side when I talk to people. They say nothing, don't even seem to notice it. But I know they're are either being polite or ashamed of my unfortunate face. All in all, I'd rather have their outright mockery, than a silent pity.
I don't know why the ants did that. Who told them to? Could it be the King of Ants, whom I've never heard about? The big shadow cast above my right eye blurs the answers.
One thing is for certain though, they're coming for my nostril hair next. They'll put it inside my ears.
That's why I filled them up with silicon. Insulation. That'll stop them. Trading some of my senses is probably worth them leaving me alone.
As for my nostril hair, it won't be easy finding it, while along with my nose, it's in the garbage can.
If only the blood would stop pouring on the paper, I would consider this a clean victory.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Hag

The night hag comes while I sleep. With her wooden ladle she eats soup out of my open head. She stirs my dreams and sniffs the vapors through her hairy nostrils.
That's why they're always whirling when I wake up, and only the bits she left I can remember.
I will find you witch. I will take my dreams back. I can shatter them myself, all but the same.