stop being cynical
this day i had ceased to plead. i was no longer capable of lamentation. on the contrary, i felt very strong. i was the accuser, you the accused. my eyes were open and i was alone-terribly alone in the world without you and without man. without love or mercy. i had ceased to be anything but ashes, yet i felt myself to be stronger than the almighty, to whom my life had been tied for so long. i stood amid that praying congregation, observing it like a stranger.
it was pitch dark. i could her only the violin, and it was as though his soul were the bow. he was playing his life. the whole of his life was gliding on the strings-his lost hopes, his charred past, his extinguished future. he played as if he would never play again. i shall never forget him. how could i forget that conert, given to an audience of dying and dead men?
possibly, one of the most moving things i've ever had the chance to experience...to indulge.
you saw a child
who you described as having the face of an angel
you saw that child hanged.
you slowly and silently walked past that child after the chair was surprisingly tipped over.
you saw that child die a painful death.
you walked past that child, with the face of an angel, dangling from the rope which had previously quilted humanity.
how do you suppose it is possible to purge humanity from so many people?
those many acolytes who deprived you of your life
and yet you feel no hatred.
if you were dead inside.. from that point on; where did you summom the strength to direct a life so purposeful in the ensuing years?
apart from the physical horror, the murders, the torture, the hunger, the separation from loved ones, and then the ultimate loss of loved ones, is there any way to describe what it does to you psychologically to see people that you admire and respect rendered impotent and stripped of their identity, to see that all your mother could do for your little sister was to stroke her hair? all she could do, while waiting in line to be burned alive in the crematory, was TO STROKE HER HAIR?
AND HOW, I WONDER, COULD ONE HUMAN BEING POSESS SO MUCH HATRED, BE SO HEARTLESS, AS TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME. HOW COULD ONE HUMAN BEING BURN YOU ALIVE SO THAT I WOULD BE ABLE TO SMELL THE PUTRID SMELL OF YOUR BURNING FLESH.
i could see him, opposite me, slumped over, dead. near him lay his sweet violin, smashed, trampled, a strange, over-whelming little corpse.
and why, i ask you, why would you not believe the poor beadle. THAT POOR INNOCENT BEADLE WHOM ESCAPED DEATH ONLY IN ORDER TO SAVE ALL OF YOU FROM WHAT HE SAW; MEN AND WOMEN.. AND CHILDREN, BEING BURNED ALIVE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM. WHY?
could you rationalize some possibility, some outcome here, other than death, other than this unthinkable outcome?
men to the left;women to the right.
and as that number was tattooed on your arm, not only was it the single most dehumanizing moment, NOT ONLY WAS IT JUST ANOTHER ASSAULT TO BE ADDED TO THE LITANY OF OTHERS; it was the single moment that made you no longer exist. you, who did nothing wrong, were instantly made a number, and no longer a human being.
just.
like.
that.
this, to me, is hell.
r.i.p peanut. i'll miss you. ♥
it was pitch dark. i could her only the violin, and it was as though his soul were the bow. he was playing his life. the whole of his life was gliding on the strings-his lost hopes, his charred past, his extinguished future. he played as if he would never play again. i shall never forget him. how could i forget that conert, given to an audience of dying and dead men?
possibly, one of the most moving things i've ever had the chance to experience...to indulge.
you saw a child
who you described as having the face of an angel
you saw that child hanged.
you slowly and silently walked past that child after the chair was surprisingly tipped over.
you saw that child die a painful death.
you walked past that child, with the face of an angel, dangling from the rope which had previously quilted humanity.
how do you suppose it is possible to purge humanity from so many people?
those many acolytes who deprived you of your life
and yet you feel no hatred.
if you were dead inside.. from that point on; where did you summom the strength to direct a life so purposeful in the ensuing years?
apart from the physical horror, the murders, the torture, the hunger, the separation from loved ones, and then the ultimate loss of loved ones, is there any way to describe what it does to you psychologically to see people that you admire and respect rendered impotent and stripped of their identity, to see that all your mother could do for your little sister was to stroke her hair? all she could do, while waiting in line to be burned alive in the crematory, was TO STROKE HER HAIR?
AND HOW, I WONDER, COULD ONE HUMAN BEING POSESS SO MUCH HATRED, BE SO HEARTLESS, AS TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME. HOW COULD ONE HUMAN BEING BURN YOU ALIVE SO THAT I WOULD BE ABLE TO SMELL THE PUTRID SMELL OF YOUR BURNING FLESH.
i could see him, opposite me, slumped over, dead. near him lay his sweet violin, smashed, trampled, a strange, over-whelming little corpse.
and why, i ask you, why would you not believe the poor beadle. THAT POOR INNOCENT BEADLE WHOM ESCAPED DEATH ONLY IN ORDER TO SAVE ALL OF YOU FROM WHAT HE SAW; MEN AND WOMEN.. AND CHILDREN, BEING BURNED ALIVE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM. WHY?
could you rationalize some possibility, some outcome here, other than death, other than this unthinkable outcome?
men to the left;women to the right.
and as that number was tattooed on your arm, not only was it the single most dehumanizing moment, NOT ONLY WAS IT JUST ANOTHER ASSAULT TO BE ADDED TO THE LITANY OF OTHERS; it was the single moment that made you no longer exist. you, who did nothing wrong, were instantly made a number, and no longer a human being.
just.
like.
that.
this, to me, is hell.
r.i.p peanut. i'll miss you. ♥