Sixty Percent of the Whole

Sixty Percent of the Whole

Imagine if you will, if you can, a staircase descending into the dark depths of nothingness. Spiraling downward, further and further into itself. Nothing but step after step leading you, and the light is so dim that you can barely see the nose on your face. Then suddenly, the next step doesn’t exist, and you find yourself falling through space and time. You fall, and know that there will never be an end to this descent, and as you plummet through this realization, all you see is level upon level of walls and doors with endless faces carrying endlessly differing expressions painted into the wood. Revelation washes your soul, as you know for the first time that these will never be reached…

Painting my portrait, I am the artist. Creating nothing but tragic beauty in everything that I touch, and leaving a trail of bleeding heart in my wake, I make what others only dream. I feel, and transfer that to the object of my attention. I finish my work, and as I leave, a thousand eyes welled with tears watch me walk away.

Wreaking my havoc, I am the demon. I will destroy all that you know and need in an instant. I will rip you to pieces, and leave you begging for an end. I will take my time, I will rain this misery upon you, and I will bleed you dry, not because I want to, but because that is what I am.

Living in pain, I am betrayed. A living, breathing corpse in a sense, I feel as though I should be bleeding. I feel like I should have clawed out my own eyes to prevent myself from seeing what had taken place, and perhaps I thought of that beforehand, but realized that my ears would have still existed, and thought better of it. But either way, it’s done now. The charade is over.

Filling you with amorous delusion, I am the lover. I will take you, hold you, and gaze into your eyes with a passion and a fury that will take your breath and give you eternity in an instant. I will dance along the skies with you, and the earth in its entirety will simply cease to be. Everyone will disappear and only the two of us will exist in each other’s arms, and nothing else will matter, because nothing else does matter.

Wiping blood from these tattered wings, I am the fallen angel. I have walked along the streets of heaven, and have been cast out. I have flown with the cherubs, and led the seraphim, and have experienced a fall from grace. Still, I strain, I yearn to fly, and curse the heavens every time I fall. I know this is not their fault, I asked for this, no one made me; still, I curse, and as the blood runs down my fingers, somewhere in the holes of these wings, you see a small part of yourself.

Many times, many people, many places; many different instances, so many facades, always, and at the same time never the same person twice. That is the essence of I, but can you crack the nutshell? Can you break this one open and get to what’s inside, and if so, will it be what you expected? I doubt that.

It’s a complex mix indeed, my friend. Sweet and sour at once, leaving a bitter taste that is almost immediately washed away, with a strong overall bite. Black and white dancing along on their respective sides of the line. Life and loss, and all that goes along with it.

Betrayal and fealty – that is what it comes to in the end. The Judases and the self-sacrificing; Those who kill and those who love enough to die. Glance once more; true colors were never spoken.