The Journal Of A Dead Man

Fortitude is the feast in famine, oil on water where ridicule is syringed between. Suffocate in the sacrilegious just to feel sane. Sin is only a drapery the cleanly use to delineate themselves from reality, and in turn, struggle.

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I crave the fruits of sin as a drowning man craves fresh water, salinity a mockery to taint the taste of the divine.

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Is it more the crime that I drown myself to deny the world this task. Revel in the reaping of mine own soul—as though it has no place to be treasured whilst pristine, but rather only a shade darker than that of night will appease my midnight mind—yet will only find me wanting in the light.

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How can I learn to be contented with a void in place of my most vital organs? Suffering myself in the determination for overindulgence, a glutton starving themselves into nothing but bones and borrowed moments.

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You may remove one mask and in its place you are set to find another, buried so efficiently beneath pretense and propriety that I sometimes fool myself. I've walked a thin line where some have ventured to the veil that leaves all but the barest remnant to be imagined and yet I think, perhaps, that veil is the most deceptive of them all.

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Be fearless in the face of vulnerability for it will feed deeply, irrespective of the façade it feasts upon. Be not stubborn in the wake of kindness, for that may be as spider's silk—strong but carefully laid so that a wayward cruelty may snap it.

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Face the ghosts of past fears, an enlightened encounter to encourage the fortitude of your new existence. Let them fade into the light of new understanding. Demons bested by the salt of tears they confess themselves to drinking—bitter in the ineptitude of their own proceedings. The sheath, weapon, wound, and sutures alike.

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Beguile thineself to one's own strength but be not blinded by it lest it fester into weakness. Fear not an outstretched hand as not all will form a weapon of your downfall.

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You wound me with your indifference, inscrutable in my ambiguity to imagine mine own being as naught but insignificant. I raise only one request, if thou art truly fond of exchanges bearing my insignia, then let it be known. Not to the crow of the morning, nor the stars at night, but simply to the ears that crave such knowledge to be spoken.

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Consumed by inferno, devour into dust my organs that be weakened by wondering thought and wayward mind. Drown me in smoke that even lungs of tissue would not expel. Tear me asunder, not to quell the flames but just stoke them so you too may be incinerated by a single drifting contemplation. Fight not the bones of tinder, nor the marrow that boils within them. This is not a heat to kill, but one to kindle, one to follow into a hell of our own making, if only to claim the coin we bet when we find it frozen.

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Ink pores from my pen in retribution for the thoughts that have no place to settle. Cursed to flit within my skull like lonely robin's lost in fog, branchless trees erected in mockery, an homage to their twisted nature. Feathers made of needles set to prick me every time I make a move to forget.