Grasp on Humanity

It's not your grasp on humanity that is the problem; it's humanity's grasp on you! You lack the strength of conviction to carry on. You think all would be better for your lack of presence within it.

I think I'm trying to say I understand, or if not then I'm never going to give up my sorrowful, woefully focussed attempt. You know that, right? You know I cannot help but be blown away as you surprise me. You weren't supposed to be human, and now you've drawn me in, a mystery, a puzzle, a reality.

I'm worn out. I would dearly love to be able to blame you, but you've stolen even that from me. My own enemy of my creation, the gently coaxed shoots from the dry, sunken earth. Your eyes darkened, with vast turbulent seas in the making, lapping at the coastline behind the stormy eyes. You see right through me; I know you do. I can feel your gaze and it hurts me, and it taunts me and I hate it, I hate it with every fibre of my being, but I cannot; I have tried; I cannot bring myself to hate you, not like I once did.

Would you forgive me if I hurt you? Would you chase me if I ran, hurtling through the weeping willows, over the hills to the lands I have not yet seen. I think you might, only for you; you're not the selfless type.

As the wind would cloak and conceal me you would hurry on with your faint plight. You'd hunt a ghost my tormentor. Your prisoner has already escaped, though her eyes betray her soul, and her words betray her might. I speak rather frailly now. I'm scared of them being turned and twisted and broken into shards before me. I know that the fragments would not leave, or be swept into the tumultuous past and lay quiet and still and be lost. No! My heart would take them in, as though they were wearied travellers so very far from home, mindful of the cold that would besiege them, and draw them to its centre, with the blood wildly drawing warmth into the glass, to the stone and to the night. Could human blood assuage such despair as my unspoken words, so cruelly kept within?

Could a good deed put to rest the demons of the previous, all of your making, the results of your choices? What of my eternal rectitude? Am I not a liar to my own oblivious circumspection? Ha, if the words of whining reached your ears! Then would you forgive me my hypocrisy?

Did you know I dream? I've seen you of course, writhing in the bed sheets, your body contorting in feverish rapture, but the sounds that slip from your dry lips are that of pain and torture and I wonder anew what memories will not surrender, and continue to assail you.

I know you see them; I heard you once whisper in a moment of frozen clarity, the acceptance of a justified fate. Whose name is it that you give voice to, that you risk awakening with a frozen tear, and shake not the chains that shackle you? Such a sombre procession plays to your subconscious delight and yet mars you with its taint of ill advised servitude and lack of finality. Are you finished, my watcher, sleep not lulling your eyes fully to vulnerability? I know should I brave a few steps closer you'd leap to battle and your grip would halt my unwise thoughts. But then, you know I'm irrational; you would forgive me that wouldn't you? You must, for you must not abandon me, not for me, never for me. You need me. I know you do. I see it though you care not to acknowledge it. That is the reason that you have strayed into this lurid course. You cannot forgive yourself for rediscovering your conscience, but now that you have you need me to enforce it.

I tire of being your voice of justice and I cannot live by such detachment. Impartiality is not my forte and your mistakes are all too real. The consequences have exploded like old shrapnel, forcibly entering and shaping the misfortune of other people's lives, so many of them lying in pieces because of your misguided ways; you know that.
I know you do.

You exact your own cruel penitence upon your heart, and I shall not see it reach its bitter end and conclusion. Are you that weak that you throw yourself to the whims and the will of the corpses that lay about you, a mind's eye full of the wrathful, never abating, and unforgotten dead? You ponder too strictly, too harshly upon your own importance in the ways and the means of determining fate!

This is it my friend. In my nocturnal ventures I have seen you walk the slow stride of the forlorn, knowing only that whatever suffering lies in the pathways behind them are but the lesser of a great multitude that still await you ahead. Do you want to be lost forever? I know that I do not.

I am not your angel to pluck you from the claws of the waiting hoards. I am not the trickster that can manipulate your foes into submission. I am only myself as I have always been, and I hope only that you manage to find your feet before they lead you into that sorry state of affairs, the dragged feet and tousled locks of indeterminable colour due to the filth of rotten existence.

I hear your heart beat, slow, steady and sure. I know that life resides yet in your crumbling bones and your weakening limbs. Blood still trespasses languidly through the tunnels of your veins. You know your tragedy. You cannot rectify it. That is the only source of salvation that sits before you. You must fight for it, my friend, my enemy, my pursuer... You have sought me, and chastised me, humiliated me and I know you can hardly abide me, yet you know it is your will alone that keeps me here.

We know what haunts you. We know that you could so easily join the line with the relics of your fortuned fantasy trailing in the dust, chained to the same misconceptions as your illusive faith in your own self-destruction. Know then that I am here and have faith too, and that my own faith resides not in the heavens but in the ability for change, that sustenance given to the hungry, water to the parched can at least receive in them better supplement for a life than that without. I have faith in you my friend that now with your roots splayed out, thirsty and famished that water might find you, that hope might find your screaming heart and in so doing might lessen the grip, guilt and the pity that have overtaken my well-thought out and rational mind into that of a sentimental fool clasping at straws knowing only that you are a failed prototype of imagination and that I too am an unconvinced failure because my wry mind and my loose tongue have not managed to get you to see that you are loved my friend, even above all the hatred that we both despise as much as it fuels us, and as such my heart is as withered as it could be in this drought. I am hardly feeling the showers of the autumn rain, not with your self-confessed, self-inflicted inflammation of your dreams, and of your entire life.

I refuse, I deny you the very right to give up your hold, because you've dragged me so far, and I will go no further. You turn back now, or I let you go. I go no further. You know I need you. You know that, don't you? You know you need me, don't you? I'm tired; you must be wearied, and I know we are neither entitled to the bliss of sleep. Not yet. We must sort out the land of the living before more dreams can plague our heads.