They Call But I Remain.

Sunbeams make a pattern across this page, a pattern of nothingness; somewhere dark, somewhere light but in essence all an illusion. Crows sing their faithful song to the wind but to me they retell only the devouring scene of battle, as if they were waiting to eat my wounded heart. Their shadow sometimes flitters across my face, sometimes I look up to shout at them to go away but I have not the strength. They remain.

Why is it that from darkness light looks so beautiful? And from pain, relief? Maybe this is my destiny, this hollow pit of sadness which I cannot escape, but then I think of these words, these dark letters full of sadness and they taunt me, they challenge me to come out, to escape, to fly. They call but I remain.

Isn’t it absurd to imagine happiness, to hope in despair? But that is only what I know…to cry in pain, to smile in despair but still look for a little light. Ah! But I must have lost my reason when I say such things, when I find music in the song of crows, when leaves seem to be celebrating, when trees are bowing to nature, when a seagull bursts from under water, when the sun seems to be playing with the clouds and clouds…and clouds…

The irony of this world makes me smile for every night I seek the day, in darkness I light the fires but that fire blisters me and I recoil from the blistering sun as if it had made me dizzy. “I am lost,” it says. “I am lost…” Where is the Light? Where are the stars that guide? Somewhere, somewhere dark and deep where none can feel their essence. I close my eyes mimicking sleep but the blistering sun makes me dizzy, and no one remains…

Blindly I stumble through the caverns of memory, witnessing nothing but listening to the screams, to the pleas of all that is of my past. I cover my ears and shut every door but the feeling remains, screaming with no voice or sound:

Where are you? Where are you?


The Weaver


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