Reposted in Whole.
As the topic says, this is posted in whole for one read, and to provide a bit more continuity. Feel free to read.
I see a Sanctuary, standing upon a lonely hill. A hill I love. This building, an old church most likely is home. Old, decrepit, falling apart, this is my home. I spy the door, caved in; the sunlight bathes the inner sanctum and shows me endless motes of dust. Vines grow up along the buttresses and the walls. The stained glass windows are molded over, and shaded darker. I enter, removing the old tattered door to see everything in disarray. The floor is caked with dust, the singular carpet that leads to the dais is destroyed, it's magenta shade ruined. I spy the rafters, and the ladder that leads to the steeple. An old blue comforter still rests up there, waiting to be reclaimed, and have someone rewrapped in it. Oh, how beautiful my home is, so empty and alone, with inside all but dead save for the lone angel that now resides within.
Sort of like myself. Returning home to what is not the same, but I still love the singular hill with my sanctuary. Out in the middle of no where, in a field of flowers and verdant grass. The sun has birthed so much warmth, yet I find solitude in a cold and dark old Sanctuary. I question myself, what kind of Angel am I?
The door caves in, bowled down by a gale of wind. The howling of the winds disrupts my slumber and stirs the threads of the blue comforter that surround me. The day is over, and the consistent chirping of birds that once sang like a melodious back drop to my day and a beautiful lullaby to my nap is gone. Replaced with an eerie silence and a large howling wind. Thunder booms in the distance. The sky is dark now, no longer the beautiful sky blue, now midnight blue, dark like my Sanctuary. I peer into my home, to see the dust swirling about in a tempest of wind. The torrents begin, the deluge is upon me, the lightning flashes and lights up the dark sky to show nothing but more darkness. The beautiful grass is so bleak, along with the flowers, all washed away in the inundating storm. The ground, now muddy is just as dirty as my Sanctuary. I stand in my steeple, watching it all in a daze, aloof and indifferent to the death of such beauty. A silent observer, I gaze into the distance, out into the large meadow that once surrounded my Lonely Hill and Sanctuary. The torrential rain floods my perfect vale, my peaceful escape from the harsh reality that was life. My only refuge, my Sanctuary is taken over by a dark and drowning water, as murky and as impenetrable as the deepest depths. The moldy stained glass windows buckle under the pressure of the rising death, and crash to shards only to be washed away like a mother's dying dreams. The pews are lifted from their once final resting place to be swished about in my flooded Sanctuary. The musty old magenta carpet absorbs the destructive waters, and is lifted and pushed about too. The cobwebs and dust are washed away in an instant and I sit in my steeple, watching it all passively. An old picture on the dais falls over, washing away from me. Her face on it, my eyes open in crimson flashes! My Sanctuary from reality, my home to be safe from the distressing facts of life, they're taken away, but with them are my dreams, and the picture upon the dais. Anger and resentment grow in me, I noticed a large shard of glass floating and in it do I spy my reflection. Gasping, do I stare at what I've become. An angel with tattered wings, sullen and sunken eyes, a perpetually scowling visage, a bowed head, stooped shoulders, blue eyes fading into murky depths of incompassion and resent. I watch myself slowly in the shard of glass, a reflection of myself I fear to acknowledge as me. It stares back at me with apathy and its eyes move away, I follow the sight. The picture wades in the water, floating and being overtaken by gushing waves. I call out to the picture of perfection and love, a happy dream washed away...
In the pouring heavens, a melancholy sky with black clouds does a single figure stand out. Peering into the depths of flooded nonsense, no sense is made. Why his dream and hope was washed away, his comfort and peace now are gone. Undoubtedly distraught by the destruction of such beauty, he's unfazed. His wings are pelted with bulbous drops of rain. The swollen shower erases his world, washes it away, sets it asunder. The fragile psyche and mind that once was this angel erodes with the stone buttresses that were his Sanctuary, under the tide of the new waters and new problems. His steeple still exists in the flood, a singular pinnacle of sanity in his dream world gone insane. His sunken and sullen eyes peer at in through the flashes of lightning and the cracks of thunder. It is continuously barraged with an uncaring rain, an indiscriminate killer of dreams and hopes, reality. Flying through the storming air and unmerciful winds he lands upon his steeple, and sits in the belfry. The threads of his blue comforter, an extra layer of deception and peace to his unrealistic dream, blow about snagged on an old nail. The angel lifts them to his naked body, holding it tight like a child scared holds his mother for comfort. He garbs himself in it, huddling scared in a dark corner of the belfry. He peers out from the comforter to watch the storm continue to thrash his Sanctuary, his dream. His prized possession, a picture set on the dais is gone to the wanton destruction of the storm; he clings tightly to the two last remainders of sanity, the ragged and old comforter and the besieged belfry, which is assaulted on all sides by an impeding doom. The wind continues to pound the rain into the belfry and waters surrounding it, waves crash against the structure, sometimes showering it with shards of glass, breaking further the faces of the saints that were plastered on the glass. Yet, the angel continues to huddle in his dark corner, learning the new song. No longer shall a melody of birds and peace be his music, but the constant churning and crashing of water and waves, the endless clash and bang of thunder and lightning, the deafening howling of winds, the whip sound that is heard as his tattered comforter lashes into his skin in the relentless winds. He sheds a single tear for the dream he has lost, never to see it the same way again. He sheds a single tear for the hell that has come upon him indiscriminately, the hell that he's learning to live with, the hell that he is learning to endure, the Hell that he is accepting as his dream. And still, he huddles in the dark corner of the belfry, being drenched in rain, assaulted by wind, and whipped by tattered cloth from his comforter. He lays down to find comfort in a dream within a dream. Only he can't sleep, for this dream has become a waking nightmare, one he is accepting. One he isn't fighting or fleeing against, one he passively watches take over his dream, and reality settles in, this isn't a dream, this isn't a nightmare or an escape, this just is. And he sheds another singular tear for the fact that is, this is his new reality.
A seemingly dead body lies on a bed. Its eyes closed, hair comfortably frames the face along with a wreath of a beard. The systematic breathing, the chest moves up and down with the help of tubes and machines. Wires dance nakedly about the corpse of a person, and intertwine around themselves and meet in his skin. The systematic breathing continues, aided. The room is almost as still and placid as the body, except its trapped. Trapped in a hospital where the calmness of the room is all a facade for the hustle and bustle of elsewhere. When truly, the body isn't trapped, but the mind is. A woman sits at his side, holding his apathetic hand, he doesn't feel it, yet he knows she's there somehow. His mind is swayed by her presence. A sunny field, full of flowers illuminates his thoughts. She clings to his hand harder, tears stain her beautiful face, her blue eyes are clouded with complete sadness. She strokes his hand, hoping and praying that he'll wake up, so she won't have to go through with what she is thinking. She begs silently at first, then breaking down into tears she asks him to wake up. Damn you, she pleas, violently. Her grip on his hand becomes like a vice, her pain manifests itself. She hugs the limp body, it lays down unresponsive, she buries her face in his chest, dodging the wires, crying harder, clinging and gripping for her own life, and for his. The sleeping corpse, the comatose man, lays back inattentive to his surroundings, secretly sensing somehow that something is wrong. A chill wind blows; darkness sets itself up in his hidden paradise away from reality. She moves her head away from him to gaze into his closed eyes, she pleads with her own for him to wake up, she wants to scream but doesn't, instead she leans to his ear, and asks his forgiveness. Her face touches his, a tear runs down her cheek to take its leaping death and land on his. The water raises, it starts to storm. Thunder and lightning, a sprinkling of rain. She whispers into this ear how sorry she is, how much she wishes she could continue to do this. His body lays limply, unresponsive. The thunder is closer now, rain starts to fall harder. She strokes his cheek lightly, says one last I love you, then walks away from him, the hardest decision of her life has been made. She gives him chance at life, but herself, she must move on. She leaves the hospital room, the bedside tear stained, grieved, she has allowed him to die for her, by not returning every day, she is allowing herself to move on. The coldness overtakes him. His Sanctuary begins to flood, and he realizes his hell. Her picture washes off of the dais, it's lost to the waves, buried beneath the destructive rains. The limp body still sits there unmoving, unchanging. So serene and placid looking, going through hell, more so than that, living it! His Sanctuary in his dream, his unwaking dream has been invaded. The terrible facts of reality burden his dream, and destroy his notion of peace and love. Look at him, so calm and peaceful. All a facade for the real pain that is within, all a facade for the hell that he is trapped in!!!
Darkness and dementia, insanity curls up his spine, creeps into his ears, seeps through his pores, crawling and moving towards his mind. He lays huddled, hiding inside his comforter, a security blanket of sorts. He peers about the dark storm of a faded reality, watches the destruction thrash about, views the splendor of unnecessary mutilation to his world with confusion and awe. The stormy waters churn in an endless cycle of crashing waves. His mind, he tries to comprehend what's going on. Why?! That is his most prevalent question. Why has my Sanctuary been destroyed, why was her picture destroyed, why am I here alone, and mostly, he asks himself in the forefront of his thoughts, why does he care. The Apathy, like Insanity, creeps in on him, it's like an infectious disease, polluting him, turning him into a crazy being of no emotion. His tears though, speak a world of emotion and insight to his divided self. He wants to care, he wants to love, he wants to be saved, yet he can't bring himself to care, or ask, or want! He stands up, looking about the destruction, and screams to the darkened skies, Why! He demands to the uncaring and unknowing storm of a reality, the crazy hell that is. Its only response is the cracking of lightning and booming of thunder. He spreads his tattered wings, the things with dying feathers, he flies into the air with brittle bones, an emaciated body is his frame now. He floats in the air, beating his wings frantically against the gale force winds, he's caught in the currents of a nightmare. He looks for something to hold onto, in this bizarre hell, yet, his last pinnacle of Sanctuary, his belfry tower, collapses under the smashing waves, finally, his final bastion comes down to face the wrath of an apparently vengeful and spiteful storm. Like the emotions he has forsaken, the storm is the antithesis of him, healthy, vibrant, emotional! It destroys all with indiscrimination. The wind mocks him, he hears laughter in it, his sickly body is caught in the currents of emotion, his mind is racked with indecision. The Angel floats in the air, trying to keep himself steady, with the help of nothing, and suddenly does he realize....An epiphany! His eyes light up with an emergence of an ancient emotion, hope. The Sanctuary, his sanctuary was a facade for what really sustained him, the emotion known as love! It was only here to house the picture of the one he cherished most. The waves rise high, and plummet into themselves, the water is horribly ragged. Yet, the angel, in such a horrid from dives from the sky and hurtles into the water. It's so dark and murky, so impossible to navigate, yet he searches on for the picture, his hands stretch before him, looking for the real reason he was alive love. The picture, love, that's the only thing to him that reminds him of an emotion his mind, heart, and body, may have all together forgotten. The water fills his lungs, he fights his way back into the air, gasping he breaks the waves and fatigued beyond all belief, he floats in the air, trying to find his breath. The rain continues to come down on him, filling his gaping mouth with more water, he tilts his head, coughing, the air comes in fits. He's so tired, so beat, so near death, he dives into the water again, to search for his lost picture of love. He pushes himself deeper, grasping in all directions, fanatically looking. His lungs burn with the lack of air, the pressure begins to burden him.
Somewhere, a world away it seems. A man lays on a bed, comatose. He hasn't moved in so long, yet now, he coughs. A nurse hears this, and runs to him. She calls for a doctor.
His lungs burn, he coughs for air, and is met with mouthfuls of dirty water. His eyes bulge with another realization. He cries out for help, there is no help though; he is buried beneath the storming waters, drowning in a reality within his mind. He is trapped in his own hell, and now he is dying in it. He desperately moves for the surface, to find air. He stops though, the realization hits him, and he suddenly hears her last words. The Sorry, the I love you, but I am moving on.... His picture, beneath the waves, it fades out of existence...love for him is dead completely. He gives up fighting, he opens his mouth and his lungs are flooded.
The body on the table convulses, it spasms in coughing fits, choking on it's own saliva, too much. So much shouldn't be there, his fingers tighten in and his muscles become tense, the coughing and the spasms continue, until....
Elsewhere, an angel wades atop the surface of crashing waves, its limp body floats like another piece of debris in this fake reality, in this hellish mind trap.
The body is declared dead.
One can not live without love.
I see a Sanctuary, standing upon a lonely hill. A hill I love. This building, an old church most likely is home. Old, decrepit, falling apart, this is my home. I spy the door, caved in; the sunlight bathes the inner sanctum and shows me endless motes of dust. Vines grow up along the buttresses and the walls. The stained glass windows are molded over, and shaded darker. I enter, removing the old tattered door to see everything in disarray. The floor is caked with dust, the singular carpet that leads to the dais is destroyed, it's magenta shade ruined. I spy the rafters, and the ladder that leads to the steeple. An old blue comforter still rests up there, waiting to be reclaimed, and have someone rewrapped in it. Oh, how beautiful my home is, so empty and alone, with inside all but dead save for the lone angel that now resides within.
Sort of like myself. Returning home to what is not the same, but I still love the singular hill with my sanctuary. Out in the middle of no where, in a field of flowers and verdant grass. The sun has birthed so much warmth, yet I find solitude in a cold and dark old Sanctuary. I question myself, what kind of Angel am I?
The door caves in, bowled down by a gale of wind. The howling of the winds disrupts my slumber and stirs the threads of the blue comforter that surround me. The day is over, and the consistent chirping of birds that once sang like a melodious back drop to my day and a beautiful lullaby to my nap is gone. Replaced with an eerie silence and a large howling wind. Thunder booms in the distance. The sky is dark now, no longer the beautiful sky blue, now midnight blue, dark like my Sanctuary. I peer into my home, to see the dust swirling about in a tempest of wind. The torrents begin, the deluge is upon me, the lightning flashes and lights up the dark sky to show nothing but more darkness. The beautiful grass is so bleak, along with the flowers, all washed away in the inundating storm. The ground, now muddy is just as dirty as my Sanctuary. I stand in my steeple, watching it all in a daze, aloof and indifferent to the death of such beauty. A silent observer, I gaze into the distance, out into the large meadow that once surrounded my Lonely Hill and Sanctuary. The torrential rain floods my perfect vale, my peaceful escape from the harsh reality that was life. My only refuge, my Sanctuary is taken over by a dark and drowning water, as murky and as impenetrable as the deepest depths. The moldy stained glass windows buckle under the pressure of the rising death, and crash to shards only to be washed away like a mother's dying dreams. The pews are lifted from their once final resting place to be swished about in my flooded Sanctuary. The musty old magenta carpet absorbs the destructive waters, and is lifted and pushed about too. The cobwebs and dust are washed away in an instant and I sit in my steeple, watching it all passively. An old picture on the dais falls over, washing away from me. Her face on it, my eyes open in crimson flashes! My Sanctuary from reality, my home to be safe from the distressing facts of life, they're taken away, but with them are my dreams, and the picture upon the dais. Anger and resentment grow in me, I noticed a large shard of glass floating and in it do I spy my reflection. Gasping, do I stare at what I've become. An angel with tattered wings, sullen and sunken eyes, a perpetually scowling visage, a bowed head, stooped shoulders, blue eyes fading into murky depths of incompassion and resent. I watch myself slowly in the shard of glass, a reflection of myself I fear to acknowledge as me. It stares back at me with apathy and its eyes move away, I follow the sight. The picture wades in the water, floating and being overtaken by gushing waves. I call out to the picture of perfection and love, a happy dream washed away...
In the pouring heavens, a melancholy sky with black clouds does a single figure stand out. Peering into the depths of flooded nonsense, no sense is made. Why his dream and hope was washed away, his comfort and peace now are gone. Undoubtedly distraught by the destruction of such beauty, he's unfazed. His wings are pelted with bulbous drops of rain. The swollen shower erases his world, washes it away, sets it asunder. The fragile psyche and mind that once was this angel erodes with the stone buttresses that were his Sanctuary, under the tide of the new waters and new problems. His steeple still exists in the flood, a singular pinnacle of sanity in his dream world gone insane. His sunken and sullen eyes peer at in through the flashes of lightning and the cracks of thunder. It is continuously barraged with an uncaring rain, an indiscriminate killer of dreams and hopes, reality. Flying through the storming air and unmerciful winds he lands upon his steeple, and sits in the belfry. The threads of his blue comforter, an extra layer of deception and peace to his unrealistic dream, blow about snagged on an old nail. The angel lifts them to his naked body, holding it tight like a child scared holds his mother for comfort. He garbs himself in it, huddling scared in a dark corner of the belfry. He peers out from the comforter to watch the storm continue to thrash his Sanctuary, his dream. His prized possession, a picture set on the dais is gone to the wanton destruction of the storm; he clings tightly to the two last remainders of sanity, the ragged and old comforter and the besieged belfry, which is assaulted on all sides by an impeding doom. The wind continues to pound the rain into the belfry and waters surrounding it, waves crash against the structure, sometimes showering it with shards of glass, breaking further the faces of the saints that were plastered on the glass. Yet, the angel continues to huddle in his dark corner, learning the new song. No longer shall a melody of birds and peace be his music, but the constant churning and crashing of water and waves, the endless clash and bang of thunder and lightning, the deafening howling of winds, the whip sound that is heard as his tattered comforter lashes into his skin in the relentless winds. He sheds a single tear for the dream he has lost, never to see it the same way again. He sheds a single tear for the hell that has come upon him indiscriminately, the hell that he's learning to live with, the hell that he is learning to endure, the Hell that he is accepting as his dream. And still, he huddles in the dark corner of the belfry, being drenched in rain, assaulted by wind, and whipped by tattered cloth from his comforter. He lays down to find comfort in a dream within a dream. Only he can't sleep, for this dream has become a waking nightmare, one he is accepting. One he isn't fighting or fleeing against, one he passively watches take over his dream, and reality settles in, this isn't a dream, this isn't a nightmare or an escape, this just is. And he sheds another singular tear for the fact that is, this is his new reality.
A seemingly dead body lies on a bed. Its eyes closed, hair comfortably frames the face along with a wreath of a beard. The systematic breathing, the chest moves up and down with the help of tubes and machines. Wires dance nakedly about the corpse of a person, and intertwine around themselves and meet in his skin. The systematic breathing continues, aided. The room is almost as still and placid as the body, except its trapped. Trapped in a hospital where the calmness of the room is all a facade for the hustle and bustle of elsewhere. When truly, the body isn't trapped, but the mind is. A woman sits at his side, holding his apathetic hand, he doesn't feel it, yet he knows she's there somehow. His mind is swayed by her presence. A sunny field, full of flowers illuminates his thoughts. She clings to his hand harder, tears stain her beautiful face, her blue eyes are clouded with complete sadness. She strokes his hand, hoping and praying that he'll wake up, so she won't have to go through with what she is thinking. She begs silently at first, then breaking down into tears she asks him to wake up. Damn you, she pleas, violently. Her grip on his hand becomes like a vice, her pain manifests itself. She hugs the limp body, it lays down unresponsive, she buries her face in his chest, dodging the wires, crying harder, clinging and gripping for her own life, and for his. The sleeping corpse, the comatose man, lays back inattentive to his surroundings, secretly sensing somehow that something is wrong. A chill wind blows; darkness sets itself up in his hidden paradise away from reality. She moves her head away from him to gaze into his closed eyes, she pleads with her own for him to wake up, she wants to scream but doesn't, instead she leans to his ear, and asks his forgiveness. Her face touches his, a tear runs down her cheek to take its leaping death and land on his. The water raises, it starts to storm. Thunder and lightning, a sprinkling of rain. She whispers into this ear how sorry she is, how much she wishes she could continue to do this. His body lays limply, unresponsive. The thunder is closer now, rain starts to fall harder. She strokes his cheek lightly, says one last I love you, then walks away from him, the hardest decision of her life has been made. She gives him chance at life, but herself, she must move on. She leaves the hospital room, the bedside tear stained, grieved, she has allowed him to die for her, by not returning every day, she is allowing herself to move on. The coldness overtakes him. His Sanctuary begins to flood, and he realizes his hell. Her picture washes off of the dais, it's lost to the waves, buried beneath the destructive rains. The limp body still sits there unmoving, unchanging. So serene and placid looking, going through hell, more so than that, living it! His Sanctuary in his dream, his unwaking dream has been invaded. The terrible facts of reality burden his dream, and destroy his notion of peace and love. Look at him, so calm and peaceful. All a facade for the real pain that is within, all a facade for the hell that he is trapped in!!!
Darkness and dementia, insanity curls up his spine, creeps into his ears, seeps through his pores, crawling and moving towards his mind. He lays huddled, hiding inside his comforter, a security blanket of sorts. He peers about the dark storm of a faded reality, watches the destruction thrash about, views the splendor of unnecessary mutilation to his world with confusion and awe. The stormy waters churn in an endless cycle of crashing waves. His mind, he tries to comprehend what's going on. Why?! That is his most prevalent question. Why has my Sanctuary been destroyed, why was her picture destroyed, why am I here alone, and mostly, he asks himself in the forefront of his thoughts, why does he care. The Apathy, like Insanity, creeps in on him, it's like an infectious disease, polluting him, turning him into a crazy being of no emotion. His tears though, speak a world of emotion and insight to his divided self. He wants to care, he wants to love, he wants to be saved, yet he can't bring himself to care, or ask, or want! He stands up, looking about the destruction, and screams to the darkened skies, Why! He demands to the uncaring and unknowing storm of a reality, the crazy hell that is. Its only response is the cracking of lightning and booming of thunder. He spreads his tattered wings, the things with dying feathers, he flies into the air with brittle bones, an emaciated body is his frame now. He floats in the air, beating his wings frantically against the gale force winds, he's caught in the currents of a nightmare. He looks for something to hold onto, in this bizarre hell, yet, his last pinnacle of Sanctuary, his belfry tower, collapses under the smashing waves, finally, his final bastion comes down to face the wrath of an apparently vengeful and spiteful storm. Like the emotions he has forsaken, the storm is the antithesis of him, healthy, vibrant, emotional! It destroys all with indiscrimination. The wind mocks him, he hears laughter in it, his sickly body is caught in the currents of emotion, his mind is racked with indecision. The Angel floats in the air, trying to keep himself steady, with the help of nothing, and suddenly does he realize....An epiphany! His eyes light up with an emergence of an ancient emotion, hope. The Sanctuary, his sanctuary was a facade for what really sustained him, the emotion known as love! It was only here to house the picture of the one he cherished most. The waves rise high, and plummet into themselves, the water is horribly ragged. Yet, the angel, in such a horrid from dives from the sky and hurtles into the water. It's so dark and murky, so impossible to navigate, yet he searches on for the picture, his hands stretch before him, looking for the real reason he was alive love. The picture, love, that's the only thing to him that reminds him of an emotion his mind, heart, and body, may have all together forgotten. The water fills his lungs, he fights his way back into the air, gasping he breaks the waves and fatigued beyond all belief, he floats in the air, trying to find his breath. The rain continues to come down on him, filling his gaping mouth with more water, he tilts his head, coughing, the air comes in fits. He's so tired, so beat, so near death, he dives into the water again, to search for his lost picture of love. He pushes himself deeper, grasping in all directions, fanatically looking. His lungs burn with the lack of air, the pressure begins to burden him.
Somewhere, a world away it seems. A man lays on a bed, comatose. He hasn't moved in so long, yet now, he coughs. A nurse hears this, and runs to him. She calls for a doctor.
His lungs burn, he coughs for air, and is met with mouthfuls of dirty water. His eyes bulge with another realization. He cries out for help, there is no help though; he is buried beneath the storming waters, drowning in a reality within his mind. He is trapped in his own hell, and now he is dying in it. He desperately moves for the surface, to find air. He stops though, the realization hits him, and he suddenly hears her last words. The Sorry, the I love you, but I am moving on.... His picture, beneath the waves, it fades out of existence...love for him is dead completely. He gives up fighting, he opens his mouth and his lungs are flooded.
The body on the table convulses, it spasms in coughing fits, choking on it's own saliva, too much. So much shouldn't be there, his fingers tighten in and his muscles become tense, the coughing and the spasms continue, until....
Elsewhere, an angel wades atop the surface of crashing waves, its limp body floats like another piece of debris in this fake reality, in this hellish mind trap.
The body is declared dead.
One can not live without love.