January 2nd, Year of the Corpse

Fuck you, Joseph says.

Matthew writes, and I cannot recall his words.

I am an enemy of men. A long-suffering warrior, tribe-less and cause-less. A face that blends in with the shadows that no longer move, but have been made firm by the centuries. Mine is a soft body, supported by softer bones. I am fingers that move in waves, mimicking the oceanic undulations. I am an unpaved road, treacherous and leading nowhere. I call on the quick trigger, fierce storms, by the dark side of the moon. I read every epitaph, leading to an unbreakable curse. And I know that everything will be settled in time.

The language I refused to learn, is the only speech allowed. I stand outside the circle, no longer longing to be part of it. If I paint from here, not a one can make a comment that will injure my ability to create. I have tried with love, and was met with perfect disappointment. I have failed, just as I have been failed. Not every climb is successful, and sometimes none at all. I fall and I rise, but no longer for another.

I peel back the layers to get to the core. I do not know how the skin will repair itself, but I blindly trust that it is all a part of the process. There is still no sign of something solid, and this does not deter me.

January 2nd, Year of the Corpse

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