A shot in the dark
Tears through my skull, quivering through my brain matter. The tracer explodes in brilliant fire and is silent. No, that would be too easy. Instead a cold dagger was thrown, silently, through nothingness, and into an arm. Left in the world of emptiness to die slowly. Enough water to last an agonizing week and without the willpower to stop drinking. It's not even that real. I'm not even sure if the dagger was thrown. The assassin is perfect, even my own scream is silent. The assassin makes me believe I've been destroyed. It is all an illusion. The assassin was never real to begin with. They killed me but never told me. But I guess that's how everyone dies in the end.
Arthritic hands grasp a ceramic cup, slipping the liquid into the lap. It burns for seconds; lapsing into warmth. An uncomfortable warmth. A terrible warmth. A warmth that may never leave. The hands smash the cup. Now what?
A sentry looks into the distance. The enemy is out there, he knows it to be. Yet there is no sign. No dust. No noise. Where is the enemy?
A phantom, an idea of a person. That is the enemy which can never be defeated. That is the one the sentry must spot.
The batter swings and 'knows' he swung well. The crowd, spirit, and ball, rise. A million miles it travels. Yet there he is. The outfielder with outstreched glove, snares that rocket. Maybe next game.
An analysis of my feelings over the last hour via analogy. Tomorrow I'm going to ride my bicycle. And take the best or worst pictures that I've ever taken. But it's going to be three months until I see my results. And it doesn't matter if they are good or bad actually. The same way that the above poetry is good or bad. Nietzsche would say good and bad depends on your morality anyway. Maybe that holds true with everything. I certainly hope so.
Arthritic hands grasp a ceramic cup, slipping the liquid into the lap. It burns for seconds; lapsing into warmth. An uncomfortable warmth. A terrible warmth. A warmth that may never leave. The hands smash the cup. Now what?
A sentry looks into the distance. The enemy is out there, he knows it to be. Yet there is no sign. No dust. No noise. Where is the enemy?
A phantom, an idea of a person. That is the enemy which can never be defeated. That is the one the sentry must spot.
The batter swings and 'knows' he swung well. The crowd, spirit, and ball, rise. A million miles it travels. Yet there he is. The outfielder with outstreched glove, snares that rocket. Maybe next game.
An analysis of my feelings over the last hour via analogy. Tomorrow I'm going to ride my bicycle. And take the best or worst pictures that I've ever taken. But it's going to be three months until I see my results. And it doesn't matter if they are good or bad actually. The same way that the above poetry is good or bad. Nietzsche would say good and bad depends on your morality anyway. Maybe that holds true with everything. I certainly hope so.