Indulgencia Plenaria.
It is, finally, the first of November.
The spin of the hourglass has commenced and it's that season again. In this midway of night and day, prayers will open the gates of the lost, and salvation will be at hand for those in transit and trepidation. As I write this, I am virtually alone in my home, oblivious to any other presence save my own breath. The curtains move as if to mock me--to tell me, that the silence is merely the presence of absence and that there is something so much more to this moment of abandon. I do not know if that is something that should comfort me or not.
Silent. Too silent.
And I look at the bed. I will be alone in my sleep later. Too alone.
And yet, in this moment where death is reminded to all by a request for solemnity, I am haunted--plagued--by a multitude of memories, all and each screaming at me from the scenes of a memory. But I don't flinch. I find that I can't. I push it away, like how the darkness pushes away the lights outside. I shake my head and wring my neck to rid myself of the creeping cold, much like how the silhouettes of trees outside resist the invisible violence of air that blows at them.
The noises, they gravitate to each other. They form a body. They pound on my head, and yet, I find no will in me to move. I succumb to the silence. Eventually, they reach a fever pitch. The scream becomes a wail and I start to close my eyes. My writing slows, my mind becomes numb, and I am trapped again in the road I have forgotten years ago.
And a friend of a friend dies. And the road is more familiar than ever.
Never a tear, save once. And it was for naught but my own.
I rise from where I am seated. I rest my hands from the writing, from this insidious pain of remembering. A wind comes into the room, and the chill lived in me. I froze. Fear creeps in me, yet--again--I don't flinch. I go to where the water was and splashed some on my face. I drowned myself for a moment, with eyes wide open, so that I am not afraid of what I will see in the mirror.
I look. And there was nothing there save for a lonely shadow. I see through his eyes. Devoid of all truth and of all passion. A creature of lies. Of defeat. He reeks of denial and of anger. And yet, in his eyes, there was no guilt.
And the monster looks away. He opens the door to the room again. He steps in. It was still empty. Still empty even if he's there. And just as he closes the door behind him, he feels a pair of eyes watching him. He stops for a moment, tempted to look behind. He was tempted to delve into the past, into what has been and where all seemed to have.
A lullaby starts to play. In the small crack that he left hanging open, the music penetrates. The culmination of all the sounds--the screams and echoes and pleas for life and for murder and for acceptance--all of them become an abomination of a harmony.
I wonder, where was it coming from? Because while I sit here and I look behind me, all I see is a monster resting on a half-closed door, hiding from this kid going up the stairs, climbing in rhythm to the sound that it hears.
And I wonder: why am I humming this fearful tune?
The spin of the hourglass has commenced and it's that season again. In this midway of night and day, prayers will open the gates of the lost, and salvation will be at hand for those in transit and trepidation. As I write this, I am virtually alone in my home, oblivious to any other presence save my own breath. The curtains move as if to mock me--to tell me, that the silence is merely the presence of absence and that there is something so much more to this moment of abandon. I do not know if that is something that should comfort me or not.
Silent. Too silent.
And I look at the bed. I will be alone in my sleep later. Too alone.
And yet, in this moment where death is reminded to all by a request for solemnity, I am haunted--plagued--by a multitude of memories, all and each screaming at me from the scenes of a memory. But I don't flinch. I find that I can't. I push it away, like how the darkness pushes away the lights outside. I shake my head and wring my neck to rid myself of the creeping cold, much like how the silhouettes of trees outside resist the invisible violence of air that blows at them.
The noises, they gravitate to each other. They form a body. They pound on my head, and yet, I find no will in me to move. I succumb to the silence. Eventually, they reach a fever pitch. The scream becomes a wail and I start to close my eyes. My writing slows, my mind becomes numb, and I am trapped again in the road I have forgotten years ago.
And a friend of a friend dies. And the road is more familiar than ever.
Never a tear, save once. And it was for naught but my own.
I rise from where I am seated. I rest my hands from the writing, from this insidious pain of remembering. A wind comes into the room, and the chill lived in me. I froze. Fear creeps in me, yet--again--I don't flinch. I go to where the water was and splashed some on my face. I drowned myself for a moment, with eyes wide open, so that I am not afraid of what I will see in the mirror.
I look. And there was nothing there save for a lonely shadow. I see through his eyes. Devoid of all truth and of all passion. A creature of lies. Of defeat. He reeks of denial and of anger. And yet, in his eyes, there was no guilt.
And the monster looks away. He opens the door to the room again. He steps in. It was still empty. Still empty even if he's there. And just as he closes the door behind him, he feels a pair of eyes watching him. He stops for a moment, tempted to look behind. He was tempted to delve into the past, into what has been and where all seemed to have.
A lullaby starts to play. In the small crack that he left hanging open, the music penetrates. The culmination of all the sounds--the screams and echoes and pleas for life and for murder and for acceptance--all of them become an abomination of a harmony.
I wonder, where was it coming from? Because while I sit here and I look behind me, all I see is a monster resting on a half-closed door, hiding from this kid going up the stairs, climbing in rhythm to the sound that it hears.
And I wonder: why am I humming this fearful tune?