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Literature Please come visit. People get upset, write poetry about it, and post it here. Sometimes we also talk about books.

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Old 11-16-2013, 01:12 PM   #1
mindless1
 
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Join Date: Jun 2007
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Secrets and Observations

Summary: This is a dramatic prose that I wrote following the suicide of my friend's wife and meshed with personal experiences. I had a lot of feedback on another site and people liked it. It's dark fair warning, but mixed with humor.

Secrets & Observations

"greater love has no one other than this, that they lay down their life for someone..." Lisa Backman

Lisa had been visiting the cabin secretly every day in the woods. Her husband noted her comings and goings with mild concern, but figured he’d let her be this time and that she needed her space. In her spare time she scribbled in notebooks, jotting down her dreams and hopes for her children. How she felt, hopelessly, day by day drawing ever to the truth of dawn’s light--wondering if she would ever be heard or understood as more than a woman caught between the polarities of time. The two partners had met in engineering at Cambridge, and bonded through their love of exploration and the unknown. Yet, there were forces at work that meant a bigger plan and in time they married and had two children, while Lisa began her quest for spiritual salvation and to understand the world in its grandest mysteries.

Her husband found her dead on the the day the two of them were scheduled with the therapist to discuss claiming custody over their children. He found her hanging by a noose in a tree way back in the forest on their land. The husband hadn’t known that she had been making the ladder, but heard the hammer pounding off in the distance thinking she was working on the cabin. The cops had been searching everywhere for her. The husband ran screaming from the body, as officers in full gear told him not to come near the body and yelled to go straight back to the house. It had been almost two months since his wife committed suicide, when he found the coin she had lost thousands of miles from their residence.

He told a girl about the angel coin that he found on the freshly swept wood floor. It had come over one thousand miles from where it had been lost, and it had belonged to his late wife. The girl was having the hardest week of her life, everything just seemed to blur into one terrifying nightmare. For many weeks she struggled with the truth, that she could explain to no one what she saw and knew. She understood the darkness, but did they? It’s hard to explain how it feels when suddenly everyone turns against you, and there’s no way or reason to explain it. Not to mention this man in Missouri was sending her cryptic emails he received and top secret information about UFO's and mind control.

A bunch of school children walked up to where she sat on a bench drinking her coffee. Giggling and saying they were on a scavenger hunt for someone, they asked her what her name was. She refused to tell them, and she wondered if those kids had found her social security card and I.D. It had been missing since the night before when she filled up her gas tank. The paranoia hit her full force. She saw the room of students trying to raffle off her identity. She walked up to them and said, “I’m on a scavenger hunt as well.” She was all she had left, well that and the Adderal someone had traded to her for her weed.

The weather had been changing rapidly for the past two and a half weeks. Everywhere she looked the sky would illuminate and streaks of lightning fall to the ground. She knew where the first bolt of lightning would strike, as she sat on the porch looking at the power lines against the clouds. It went straight down into the ground, and then rain poured so hard that she missed her Marilyn Manson concert. The girl was trying to stop being careless and childish, not to lash out at the strange coincidences and be brave enough to look for the real signs. To listen to her intuition, to her soul, and not get freaked out by cryptic emails or text messages from the grave.

The nightmares went away for at least one year after the man who resembled her attacker had gone away, or at least stopped existing in her eyes. It had all come together almost as if strung up on some horrid Shakespearean play. First, she picked up this winchester pocket-knife on the ground, and then she meets this tall man who admires it and the knife and him end up going missing. Then she gets a call that he's dead but she swears he’s back in town. This ominous immortal stranger. She had a dream about him, surrounding by lightning bolts, standing over her. Bite me. Normal people call this paranoia, but what about the dreams that end up portraying reality?

She has struggled with premonitions, and they typically do not fail to underline the threats she has come head to head with often. The image of the man with the knife haunted her, as if some terrible curse was laid upon her. The best way to defeat an enemy, is to believe he is your friend.

Everything has withered, dried up, & become a void of dispersion. The hatred, the anger, the force of his mind or the dark ink scribbles that I can't simply muster anymore. The beauty of the rain drops or the bitterest downpour, soaking me to the core with vapid discontent. No drug could satiate nor satisfy the barren volume which sits within me. My thoughts skim through fleeting moments of what was before and the urgent sense of sanity, which could never have claimed my mind. I feel broken like a violin; voicing her song to no one but the creaking floorboards. If I could only summon the Lords of the universe to sweep me away from the numbing chill of depression. If I could dip a brush into India Ink and smear my portrait across the infinite canvas that has become my life--to be born again in the wild thunderous storm of madness.

Instead, I remain listless as the fog mows over the evening sky, an intrepid traveler of clouds. Meaninglessly I conjure words to realms which are too far from this lake of disarray. The world spins and twists itself betwixt bands of oblivion, but we know better.
A blur of watercolors descends upon this oceanic view of the neither-nor woman. I see a bright room lit by an undesirable opaqueness, where the listless fallen are nursed back to life. I pray to Heaven and his convoy of immortals, though I never am sure if he has heard. The voices have all gone to sleep, have been banished to never-land. Once a child of innocent insanity, now slipping past the moon as the shadows dance upon her in a circle of understanding.

She watches clouds gathering droplets of rain from her eyes. She knows it is because there is something wrong with it. Unsure if she's angry or relieved, the woman goes and sits on the porch like she had for so long. Staring out into the beautiful green and blue, her sobs release as she pleads with the Lord for forgiveness from her ignorance. They buy Maggie flowers on Sunday, purple ones that look like daisies. That night their children dream of blood pouring from the sky. Angry voices leap at them from the shadows.

How can she begin again? Like before, after the cleansing had left her mind barren and her skin cold to the touch. Would it be wrong to suspect father's accusations? A lying, stealing sorrow forms like a dark cloud drifting across the horizon. Her mothers sobs are heard from the room below her; he's cursing Satan who dances around twisting anything he can touch. How strange that she had to lose touch with everything she once loved so dearly. Now the words mean nothing. A mother with secrets. Where was the shining spark that kept her alive whether it drove her to madness or not?

People are susceptible to lies because they cannot accept harsh truths, the same goes with lying. This is how a wealthy man becomes a poor man over night. When he looked out from his big house, did he ignore the flowers? When he thought to his two children and his crazy wife, did he feel loathing? Did he not feel any sense of pride or joy? It's not fair, said the daughter, to blame me for hating your life. Just because you hate your life, doesn't mean I have to destroy the life that is inside of me. You have everything in your hands because you own the land. The dollar bill is more cruel than a pill to wash away the memories.

It's not that she wanted the child, it was that she had no choice but to give her the world back.

"Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption, but he who sows to the Spirit will of the Spirit reap everlasting life."

It's autumn, and all the oranges and yellows of the sun have fallen. I hold your hand because I can't walk down the street. I am unable to move. Flashbacks permeate my brain; I fear that I'm going insane for good this time. I see memories, I relive a million of these theories. I wash down alcohol, pepsi, and story endings. I drift in and out of clothes and Zen. I am working up a tolerance to this world. I'm gaining influence over the matrix. I'm breaking down the walls of reality; and I am falling every time I find myself alone. When will love be centerfold?
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