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written by: Arwenium
“Inside of me lives a civil war between me and me.
It is amazing, because I am all the time winning
and all the time losing.”
At the beginning of time, there was a contract.
A simple hand written bunch of words, unreadable and imprinted on an invisible paper almost like a tattoo. You could barely feel it with your fingertips, and yet there they were. No one could ever say what it says or demands, what it brought to one or the true intentions of it. Inside cravings for knowledge woke up, brainstorming turned on and questions of right and wrong were born. Hesitancy kept hands still and hard like a stone, body was fighting not to accept the unknown, but a force strong as life itself put a neatly quill written initials at the bottom and the black stains started to merge, invisibility of a paper slowly getting a tan, nude look of a papyrus. There it was, the beginning of a new story, of a new end and everything in between left to be written.
It simply said: “Farewell”
That was the last time contract was made.
What's in between was yet to find out and yet to be written. No one could ever remember the notorious contract day, present was all that's left and the future too blurry to be prepared for it. Roller coaster never stopped turning, only ones on it swap places when the time came. Definition of time lost its purpose, it was measurable by man made objects for better organization of basic human needs, and the world started living that way, becoming delusional for a minor inconvenience of simplicity. Need for understanding the essence of making died with the last contract. All that is known had already been served, transferred from one to another and everyone must've added some “personal spice” while being told.
Assumed this a God, heaven and hell story?
It's a universal one that can be found in all the places, fit in all untold stories and deceive us in already told ones.
While walking down the misery pavements, apparitions lure not from the dark, but behind our backs, out of our luggage, beneath our coats, on top of our heads, inside our minds. All of them feed with the in between story, digging rakes to trap us in and scratch with fingernails to scare us on one thing we're forever left with, our sanity.
Simplicity is a well payed obligation. Much do we lose by binding with ignorance and blocking instincts. And we've been blocked by outside the moment we start to find an answer in ourselves. Helping hand is overrated, but you've got two that came for free.
This day, like every other, started and should come to an end. By time itself or by man made measurements. But how is it going to pass, how do we plan to use it or let it use us?
I've been trapped in a battlefield where all wars were fought and victims became burned ground spots, but no living soul ever came there. I've been the master of my catastrophe, maker of a dueling ground and one of many black, rotting spots on it. There, where grass will never grow.
So, once again, does the essence of everything else even matter, if I can't simplify my own? If I can't understand the one I'm bound to and trapped with, one I'll be with till the roller coaster offers me a spot I once again won't be able to deny just like I couldn't the contract itself. Will it always be a battle between me and myself, with no true victims or are they the only I'm supposed to worry about? What a catharsis in this one man tragedy.
Left with no instructions, map or rights policy, struggle is on a daily basis. That could be the only truth we're aware of without any research. Forgetting about small things that get us through the day, and return to the ones holding us behind. We hold ourselves behind by being afraid of losing humanity, empathy and sense of belonging to somewhere or someone. Creatures made of an electrified cloud of emotions, little bit of dirt and no certain place to rest.
I starred at a home I thought it was my own. I could sense it, touch it without coming closer and breathe it in even if it was last breath to take. I would undoubtedly run into embrace I felt safe in, carried by it through the ice cold storm and sheltered like the most precious piece in a world's at museum. Comparison couldn't be made cause no home was worthy as mine. Only place I'd keep safe from setting on fire, put the guards in front of its concrete walls and summon every fairy tale creature to bind powers and protect it from any possible and known impact. I would never assume my home will turn against me, Brutus is a historical figure, not a behavioral syndrome. Night shades were easily detected in a world of light, easily destroyed. But particular one came again, and again and so until one day whole room inside my home turned distant, dark and unapproachable. I had to take a step back, or I'd be consumed by it. As time passed by, shades almost got every corner of my home, creatures in help couldn't last anymore so I set them free, got on my doorstep and quietly stand there watching my betrayal. Was it cause I put it under the glass jar so nothing could come close and torn us apart? Or was it because I was looking for a forever in a temporary place?
Sometimes, I go to the north fences just to check what it's like without me. No shades, no darkness, not a sign of a battle or guards, quite opposite. Perfect home to a perfect souls floating around. Two beautiful apparitions walking towards the lake, carrying food to the creatures that once fought but now come as dear guests. And something broke in me, threw me back to reality and I could see what's left of me. Blank space, burned forest and an old door with no handle to use. What was left? What I destroyed and will never be reborn? I should've stopped this war before it even began.
Just like that, memory flashes started to show every battle ever lost, ever won and predict many yet to come. Like at the beginning, hesitancy wasn't strong enough to keep my eyes shut so I won't go through all of the sadness again. Only thing I remember is how I wonder when will this end, will anything survive and what kind of monster have I made of myself. But I could just observe, cry and mourn in silence, wanting to participate to eliminate version of myself which let such horror alive. All sort of stories had a beginning and an end in front of my eyes. Some made me a shame of who I was and how I reacted, some made me cry while showing most precious, heartfelt scenes that gave me reason to live, some made me as angry as I can be, brought the powerful rage I never assumed to exist. I was overwhelmed like never before, felt like a volcano ready to erupt, and hell like fire started crawling up my leg. Soon, I realize I became another dusty, black spot on the ground.
How many times should I murder myself while pretending to live?
What is the worth of all of this?
Was beauty in things killed a long time ago, or it never existed?
Is it my fault?
Wrong choices write wrong outcomes.
Burned bridges close variety of paths.
Sitting on a wisdom chair never granted a crown or a specter which announced the reign.
Never brought a fortune, kingdom to rule with or a fortress to hide in. Its purpose was to be shared, nurtured and not used to rule behind the veil. When misused, it's wisdom as much as it's foolishness. Those who used their once pure wisdom to call themselves masters of else's destiny, have been drawn to massacre of an entire lightness of being. Made their rules born by an ego, spread the words to the world and made masses follow their path towards destruction of existence as one unique human.
It is wrong to curse, vulnerable to speak about or show how ripped inside you are, noble to keep the mouth shut and not share your opinion so you won't drawn any necessary attention. It is better to stand aside and watch the war troupes ravage, scatter and leave nothing behind, cause you'll always have time and right to mourn. Just stay aside and you'll live.
No one will tell you how many times you'll die cause of a broken heart, broken vows and opportunities that'll never come in your way. Be silent, be humble and thrive to nothing.
Be a black, burned spot and remain as one, they'll love it.
Only wars you'll lead will be ones in your head no one will hear or know about, hidden behind the masks and skins bought in a trading store. It's fine, it's way of surviving, it's how you'll keep your head untouched.
You'll be granted with a blissful ignorance, live under the rock of knowing everything but crave for nothing cause frightened as you are, you see no way out. Just spikes and archers waiting for a target as long as the sun is up in the sky. Or are they? Is it only a part of a charade?
When the spears are down, and no one's to blame but yourself, how confident do you feel to walk in an unknown world? Who's now to blame except yourself?
Possibilities are like an open door without a handle, once you step towards one, go across, soon you'll know nothing about what's left behind.
Those doors your mind produced, those without a handle, just need a gentle push of a soldier done with fighting himself, done with laying on the ground watching the sky and never touch it cause it seems so far, distant and untouchable.
Only war ever fought is one inside your mind.
Free yourself by collecting belongings of a scattered soul you left to go throughout it over and over again. Take what makes you strong, satisfied, acknowledged and shine in some other realm. Sign a contract with reality that'll be written by your hand, that'll come from the heart and set boundaries based on what was taken away from you and what was worthy to follow further.
Battles are fought everyday and there's nothing you can do about them.
Learn to accept to come out of it as a winner regardless to an outcome.
You were the winner the moment you understood the main character is a role given only once in this story.
It's yours to choose what kind of one you'll be.
But there's a catch.
No one can do it for you.