I turn around."Where are you?" I ask, eyes fixed on each corner of the room.
"Right here," it whispers behind my back, daring me to turn back... again.
I will not. I can't.
I can't go back to that dark road,
Step into that deadly fate.
Not even across its borders.
Confused I am, looking all around.
"Can't you see me? I'm right here," It hisses, like I've been blind all along.
And maybe I have been.
But if I am blind to this particular thing, then I can care less.
Only I don't.
Part of me wants to look back, and the mortal side of me gets the best of me.
I turn around to see who is right here, and I see who I am most afraid of.
I see who I thought I would see...
Who I knew I would see...
...Me.
"Who are you?" I ask, as if I don't already know. I don't ask because I don't know, I ask because I want answers, no matter what they are.
She doesn't answer, but I know who she is.
I examine to find differences and am relieved that I do--- she's full of scars and bruises.
Each one slowly reminding me of different failures in which I have trained myself to forget.
But the longer I remember, the more identical we become.
She only has twelve scars, but I see thirteen on my skin.
Her eyes are blue, but mine are turning black.
She remains, but I am turning gray and I lift my hands, both now transparent.
I try to scream, but my voice has been turned off, like I am someone's puppet.
"Don't you know who I am?" She finally responds, though her timing could have been, I don't know, a little sooner.
I can see she has a cold, cold heart.
"I've been here all along. I'm controlling what you're doing right now. You're a slave to me---you---and you never even tried to stop it, little moron."
Controlling what I'm doing right now...
She means it's my fault for allowing my life to go this way?
She's saying it's me who has enslaved myself?
And if she is me, why is she calling me a moron? I never called myself that...
Did I?
Face it.
I'm the moron.
The slave.
The helpless peasant.
I am the one causing all this.
And I'm doing nothing about it, letting life pass by.
Not anymore.
I go back to the start.
I listen to a different voice, one singing a heavenly song.
Soprano, alto, bass, countertenor, baritone... every range.
Flute, violin, harp, trumpets, loud cymbals... perfect harmony.
I'm on a narrow road, scars fading faster now with every step.
Healing.
Misty rain washes away the ashes.
And I am a new person, past completely erased
And here I've finally found my place
Here,
Right here.
"Right here," it whispers behind my back, daring me to turn back... again.
I will not. I can't.
I can't go back to that dark road,
Step into that deadly fate.
Not even across its borders.
Confused I am, looking all around.
"Can't you see me? I'm right here," It hisses, like I've been blind all along.
And maybe I have been.
But if I am blind to this particular thing, then I can care less.
Only I don't.
Part of me wants to look back, and the mortal side of me gets the best of me.
I turn around to see who is right here, and I see who I am most afraid of.
I see who I thought I would see...
Who I knew I would see...
...Me.
"Who are you?" I ask, as if I don't already know. I don't ask because I don't know, I ask because I want answers, no matter what they are.
She doesn't answer, but I know who she is.
I examine to find differences and am relieved that I do--- she's full of scars and bruises.
Each one slowly reminding me of different failures in which I have trained myself to forget.
But the longer I remember, the more identical we become.
She only has twelve scars, but I see thirteen on my skin.
Her eyes are blue, but mine are turning black.
She remains, but I am turning gray and I lift my hands, both now transparent.
I try to scream, but my voice has been turned off, like I am someone's puppet.
"Don't you know who I am?" She finally responds, though her timing could have been, I don't know, a little sooner.
I can see she has a cold, cold heart.
"I've been here all along. I'm controlling what you're doing right now. You're a slave to me---you---and you never even tried to stop it, little moron."
Controlling what I'm doing right now...
She means it's my fault for allowing my life to go this way?
She's saying it's me who has enslaved myself?
And if she is me, why is she calling me a moron? I never called myself that...
Did I?
Face it.
I'm the moron.
The slave.
The helpless peasant.
I am the one causing all this.
And I'm doing nothing about it, letting life pass by.
Not anymore.
I go back to the start.
I listen to a different voice, one singing a heavenly song.
Soprano, alto, bass, countertenor, baritone... every range.
Flute, violin, harp, trumpets, loud cymbals... perfect harmony.
I'm on a narrow road, scars fading faster now with every step.
Healing.
Misty rain washes away the ashes.
And I am a new person, past completely erased
And here I've finally found my place
Here,
Right here.
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