Dying

jon laa wrote on October 12th, 2009, 6:54 pm

I lay on my bed waiting for death to consume me. I wasn’t going to die just yet but the cloud of submission was coming upon me, convincing me to walk straight into the lion’s den.

Of course somebody came and saved me, saved me from the impending death.

They wouldn’t let me go though, I’m sure of it. But we’re preparing for it, we are taking precautions. They may spring an attack on my doorstep, trying to catch me offhand but we’re prepared. No such comfort once dusk falls on wednesday - I’ll still have to eventually face the lions.

In the mean time, we have peace and perhaps prosperity.

I don’t like how they work, how they deal with things. It appalls me how little responsibility each of them have. They abuse their authority, in full weight, not giving people like us - who are at the end of the food cycle - any space, breathing space. Like helpless souls trapped between dimensions, we only have high powers to look onto. On good days, we have angels in flesh and blood.

There are many ways out, unexpected ways out. It wasn’t part of the plan to run away, to escape, to take flight into other shelters for safety. I was promised recovery, promised to be normal again, but I don’t think they care. They are out to milk us dry, to cultivate us into working units belonging to their factory of mass production. Our existence is to fulfill their void.

My desire is to never return again. Maybe I’d disappear altogether one day during my visits to those shelter. They are nice people, the only nice people around. They try to help, to right wrong and to put everything back together again. To put everything back together for the others so we could be fruitful again. I don’t like it that way.

It is far more deal to be broken beyond repair. No maintenance required then. It will be freedom, lush undefined freedom. They will let me go, let me go from tattered dreams and broken hearts.