It’s amazing how there are certain pairs of eyes you can see your whole life inside of. A watery reflection of existential justification, so full of your now that there is no room for speculation, no room for future. The eye is filled with a world of you. Every dark choice, every chart topping euphoria, every secret relief, every pounding heartbreak, every keystroke of your divine druthers, shining from the center of this iris. Two glowing globes of you.
“I have to.”
The ties that bind. Such a frivolously scattered phrase, poignantly stringent in its overuse, devoid of any real meaning anymore. In seeking shortcuts to emotional exploitation, one is required to bypass catalyst in favor of end result. All the focus goes on the bind… but what of the ties? For it is the ties which give the bind any credibility in the first place.
The serenading note of the nightingale loops itself esoterically around the soul, the roots of Mother Tree forage their thin fingers into dark soil’s brown earth, newly christened big brother finds his world completely redefined at the fierce clutch of baby sister’s warm fist around his finger… it is the ties which allow anything to matter. The ties are what people spend their whole lives in search of; they are what the warmongers wage their destruction over; the ties are the three cord bond which the torturers vigorously fray in their fervent efforts to destroy the minds of their victims.
“Our story isn’t ours anymore Mother.”
Isn’t it funny? The solution to being stricken with lethal diseases is quarantine. Confinement. Of course, had you been alone to begin with, you would have never caught the disease. So why do people clump in close to those biologically tagged for death? Because of the hook. Because of love. Love is the greatest infection of all.
“You are infected Mother. You have the infection, and I have all these people. If I don’t draw the line here, then I’ll never draw it. And your infection will spread. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I’d trade my own life to reverse these roles. But I can’t.”
Whoever believes in the myth of “the right words” has clearly never been forced into a situation where they truly had to speak them. Potent verbiage has a way of sterilizing itself when induced by necessity. We are forced to choose. Say what you want to say. Or say it how you want to say it.
But never both…
“I’m not strong enough to save you and them Mother. I might be able to save you later… but I can save them now.”
“I love you Mother. I’ve loved you since before my first memory and it will continue long after the earth spins its last cycle.”
Father asked a question once.
“Why are you crying?”
I didn’t have an answer for him.
Because crying isn’t something you explain.
It’s something you do.
“I wouldn’t be Man enough to bear responsibility galaxies too broad for my shoulders without you. Every breath I take, every heroic action I endure, every bloodcurling sacrifice I manifest, will all be frames and flowers in my shrine to you. My homage to a life well lived, from a Mother I gained too early and lost too soon.”
Crying is something you just do.
“I love you Mother.”
A wailing grind creaked through the air, instinctive response to the lever being yanked along by tightly gripped hands. Ripples of trembling earth rumbled throughout the ground as deeply embedded tectonic blades were activated to perform their dastardly deed. The specialized technology executed its work quickly, and when those morose, earthy hands let go the lever, all was done.
Salvation drifted slowly away.
The island formed.
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