There is another fire in my throat, traveling down to the pit of my stomach. It burns my esophagus and writhes uncontrollably when i swallow food. Little elves like to pay homage to it during the winter, dancing in circles with their melodious bell steps, but i shut my ears and eyes to make them disappear. I hope it snows somewhere above me so the shavings of sky ice can flutter their way to me. I hope my open mouth can capture enough to extinguish this infernal, this diabolic heat. Are these serpent flames missed synapses of my damaged nerves, or my imagination's revenge?
Think, are you a product of an unfulfilled ambition? Are you the consequence of someone else's rebellion? I am a figment of existence. Existence is a vast surface of fluid, clear and taut in its pious stillness, or a thrashing, unmerciful beast. As time allows my frame to clot in the veins of life, the world incorporates me. But how are you formed and engraved onto this filmy existence?
Sometimes my mind shuts down because these of this pain, these flammable expectations. The sound of my burning ideals is like music to the enemy. He warms his fingers in our hellish voids. Humans are unique because we have eternity dwelling in a temporary shell. Our souls, containing the two portals to heaven and hell, agonizes as they seek for the One thing to satisfy these infinte vacuums. Sometimes I visit hell within myself and the luring darkness that begs to consume, lording over us to become lords. I am not a lord, but merely a receiving creation who aches for the love of her Maker. If He is for us, who can be against us?
No comments:
Post a Comment