Other creative ramblings

Defect

Rae — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 12:46:28 +0000

My desire to be headless stems from childhood. My head betrayed my every intention for friendship and understanding. The others had the benefit of being born without heads. But my family has been sorely afflicted with the condition for generations. Some of my family had learned to live within society with few people noticing their malady. I however, had been stricken with an extreme case. I could not pass unnoticed by my peers. Both my parents had the defect, but over the years had become proud of their difference from others. They insisted that I not change myself. They said we were the normal ones and everyone else were the freaks. But they are just fooling themselves. As long as we are the minority, we are the freaks. When I was 18 I searched for a doctor who could remove my head. Doctor after doctor refused, but after years of searching, I found one who would. Now I anxiously await for the procedure to be done.

Abandon

Rae — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 12:45:33 +0000

“Hell? It’s alright…I suppose. I mean…it is Hell, but really, when all Hope is abandoned that initial sting fades.

“And yet, there are so many here who still cling to it; the fools. Don’t they know Hope is the enemy? The Judas Cradle they all willingly choose to sit on? What does it give them? Do they think they’re getting out? That they are the exception? God’s mistake? Hah! They embrace to the Hope of a fallible god!

“What other Hope is there? Perhaps existence will come to an end, but would it help us here in Hell? God doesn’t see us; we don’t exist. So Hope is useless. Hope is the great torture, makes us…conscious; conscious of pain -- and worse yet -- the lack of pain. Was there a time I did not feel agony such as this? No. No, there couldn’t have been. If there were then it would mean I wouldn’t have to feel vermin eating my re-growing flesh, or taste the shit and tears rotting since Eve tasted fruit, or witness fires burning so bright I see every simultaneous suffering of Hell and Earth. If this weren’t the only existence possible then there would be a reason that this is MY existence, and there would be someone to blame. And since nothing exists but me and my pain, it must be my fault. But how could I have prevented this if it has always been like this? Exactly…exactly…that’s right…

“So...Hope. Hope is the Devil’s true torture. Not just ours, but his own. You know why he is the King of the damned, right? Because he’s just like us; a prisoner condemned, pretending to rule, and he has more Hope than anyone else here. His hope fuels this place. It was his Hope that created this place and imprisoned him here. His was the greatest of all Hopes: the Hope to be free of God.

“Some might call this pride, but what is pride but the Hope that our own existence matters? The Hope that we might be Godly and beautiful and masters of our own souls? And that is what the Devil Hoped for when he battled heaven and for what he still Hopes. He has buried his head in his Hopes and listens to God with his ass. That half-goat bastard is clueless and will never be free from Hope. He did not balance on his cloven feet to etch Hell’s Prologue. No, that must have been our merciful God’s work: the creator’s last comforting words to the damned.

“I heard an old woman screaming, ‘God save me! God save me!’ I had to laugh. You see, God can’t save anyone and the best thing he ever did for us is write the words on Hell’s gate. It should be written on birth-room walls-or better yet-in the womb. It might reduce the precocious children and the ambitious tyrants. If they only knew how poisonous Hope is they probably wouldn’t try so damn hard and the world would be at peace. We all struggle for our Hopes, thrashing and gnashing for that ‘something better.’ Then we die, go to Hell and continue the same farce.

“There is no contentment to be found in Hope on Earth or in Hell. God wants you to accept your misery; that is the closest you’ll ever get to Heaven. The meek have the right idea: no pride, no hope. They’re just sitting around waiting for redemption, and they are the only ones likely to get it. The rest of us willful bastards are looking for Heaven on Earth in shopping malls, magazines, self-help books, and Christmas bonuses, but we’ll never see it; we can’t even imagine it, but we can imagine Hell. So which do you think the “average shmo” should prepare for? From the corporate investor to the janitor, we’re all the same in God’s eyes: damned for our pride, our loves, our lusts, our wants, our dreams, our Hope.

“So, abandon all Hope because the only difference between life and death is that life ends.”

Complete Randomness in spired by drink, success, failure, and obsession...!

Rae — Fri, 07 Sep 2007 04:20:25 +0000

A "stream of conscience" esque prose inspired by drink, success, failure and obsession...

…and awake with new prospective on the previous night’s dreams that make me suspect my secrets had been ignoring me; they are living on and without my knowledge. But then I come upon my own body, so thin and ill, lying face down across the threshold between the familiar cold wood floors in darkness and the lush, moist, light of the natural evening with its forgiving Moon. ---You see my secrets divulged themselves to the Moon, guiltlessly, without me.---But I still lie here, across this threshold. I am bones and skin by this time. Somewhere, a voice called out from the living evening. I cried because I feared that I might never respond to the voice. But at the lift of my head my bone and skin were light, almost liquid, and I called toward the night. There is no answer, but I trip and skip and fly into the lush nature. Wooden floors lie ten steps back. The moonlight voice is an unknowable distance forward. Ten more steps into the night, a kind face will permit me a ride through the swampy glades glistening under the moon. The first moments of the trip were excitement and freedom, playful reverence at riding so far. We are riding too far; I must return. The swamp deeps wish me drown in them! The moon sees and knows too much of me from my betrayer secrets. Please! Back to wood floors with walls surrounding; they are opaque walls that let in sun light, no moon light. I will sit here alone, without my treacherous secrets. Which is all well, because the true secret is me; just me. Secrets do not have their own secrets. I am my own secret, so I have none. Just hide me and no secrets will be revealed.

Dreams of Passion Doomed

Rae — Sun, 12 Aug 2007 06:47:22 +0000

"Why do I dream everynight that I am desperately in love? And almost always that love is doomed..."

I woke bleeding with a dagger in my heart. I was too weak to remove the blade. Not in strenght, but in sentiment. I wished to bare the broken heart though dreamlike in it's origin.

I lay in bed to recollect the moments. The moments where real enough to me then, can they be real to me now? I remember a kiss, a longing, a touch, a loss, eyes looking back at me in a way I never have experienced anywhere outside of deep slumber.