Hiding Behind the Moons Embrace

Don’t ask me for the truth. I no longer remember it. Why do we need it? I prefer the lure in a meaningful lie. The nature of this world makes a believable lie as real and as right as anything. After all, all truths betrays us. in the end.
We are all tellers of lies. As soon as someone tells you they will never lie to you. Run and hide under the first bed that you can find. They are those worst kinds of liar. They are heartless and completely lost in their own self deception.
Mine lately is the hope I can find some truth in this life I keep choosing. That someone will care enough to save me. That in my searching I will be found. The biggest is that “Ill never lie to you.” I am strong. I am fine, and I do not need you. I only wish I could believe them. Instead I am stuck here in this knot of truth, facts. A wasteland of transparency. Twain was right to mourn the death of the art of lying. The truth hasn’t any weight, it shatters and breaks.

Lies are the moons peaceful resignation to the night. Does she not seem always majestic and proud as she preside over this, her dark imperial realm. Alienation is her crown. Its a falsity, that her light is only the reflection of the suns delight. I find her to be seemingly sad, her pale luminosity whispers resignation. Hers is the light of acceptance; she finds solace in the shadowed places.

With only a few companions to ease her in her seclusion. They too, are things astonishing and deep... stars sparkle in the deep velvet of black on white, small rays of radiance. Their tiny flickers are not nearly enough. They grant no reprieve to the shadows, they have no effect on its depths.. They simply bequeath to it a little more wonder. Diamond reminders of the light.

Like her I am a creature of the night. It is endless, its proportions allow me to feel closer to infinity, as the objects that define its borders become lost within its dark dimensions. I love the potential I find in its space. Its something I can fill.

I am fascinated with the idea that, dreams, hope and whatever lies keep them alive in me are enough to give substance to my life. Its is philosophy of lies. If life is without any unalterable truths, and righteousness is as changeable as the mind that thinks it up, my philosophy is as noble a choice as any.

I am terrified with the depths of my own faithlessness, in my belief that the possibility of loving and being loved is the biggest lie we are spoon-fed. I believe in neither the absolute kindness in another, nor the possibility of a love that is pure. Both are impossible, and better left in the realm of angels and saints. I wish to leave them there.

Kindness is a sham leaving you weaping in the arms of the violence in others, laying you flat and weak as a puppy. Love is the evil that brings many to murder and suicide. Murder an imperfect overabundance of, suicide a lack of. We cannot expereriance them perfectly, and our mistakes in attempting them make them the tools of our own destruction. Leave them there, becouse in the end the twisted truth of love and kindness, is that love is rarely ever more than selfishness and hate with a pretty face, and kindness, is very often found to be the very thing you fear.

Suppose I could rush my fate. What If I could find myeslf bloodless in the arms of angels. Would you want me to? It would be something rare, I swear. Perhaps you would smile. Maybe hold my hand and tell me the stories of winged things. I’d send you a feather, or a note, or some such sign that granted you belief beyond this imperfect faith.
God would deny us, I am sure, after all, he’s the madman behind the wall, sitting in his easy chair, mocking us all. Perhaps Jesus would pretend not to see it, when I murder God and leave him dead in his bed, taking him forever ever out of the hearts of men. Ill be sure to send at least one small token, a tiny token of proof. I wont leave you to wonder to the fate of heaven.

Don’t be surprised though if it comes in the form of angel wings, clipped and preserved in blood. I just pulled them off to see what they were like. I didn’t mean to let out all that light. I just wanted to hold it. I wouldn’t of kept it I swear.

Do heavenly things have the magic of repair? Can I just glue her wings back on? Would they stay thier? If so then I could just let it flow, and finally bleed all this nothingness out. Like a rose in full bloom in the snow. Blood red against the white. I just want to let my soul out. Afterall, I am not there, and the heat of my fears makes gold glow white.

Fuck all this fear. I prefer fairies and unicorns. Reality is fore the stillborn. I try always to stay outside of it, lest it suck you into its malicious, soul killing realism. I want transformation, and passion, I want to create! I don't want this world, the one offered up to me. I want my own, perfect world. I don't want to be touched by the soulless. It is not the truth I want, but a reality I can live with, madly, magically, happily. Let me be the a painter of my own life, and make that which I long for. Crave. Need. I will wear lies as mask's, making them as pretty as a pixie at a costume dance. Its pure genius at work. If life refuses to make sense, let us love the contradictions and its madness. I am no longer fearful of the bruises. I come complete with my own indestructible love for self destruction.

I need something to love in order to be born again somehow in an idea. I’ll be nothing but black and blue in the end. Disappointment. Lending me resentments I have no room with which to share.

Ideals. None of them hold up. Maybe we outgrow them. It is possible we use them up like each other, like gasoline or cigarettes. Perhaps we absorb what is useful about them then spit them out like chewing gum. I know only that chasing them is like chasing rainbows. Only harder to grasp, but just as futile. And fleeting. In their transparency they elude you and hide in the corners where they quickly turn to ashes and dust. Before you can find them they shatter into fragments. Ever rummage about in old dreams? They never rematerialize. Remember what the truth in them was that made them feel alive and breathing when you at first had dreamed them? No passionate embrace this time. No tears, no madness. All that we hold dear is destined to deceive us.

If you want to pretend to love me, do it from over there. I do not care, its absence may kill me but I do not want it near.