Time

The hour has come to rid myself of vanity and pain as I look at how seductive the glisten of the silver knife endeared me. I fancied a grin as the thought of sin welled upon my chest.  But to my restless, tortured eyes she appeared so much more; an image of the Angel of Mercy.

I have chosen the perfect day it seemed. The fierce raindrops against the roof forced me to chuckle to myself- they shall be my requiem. Because I remember the rain- the treacherous falling of the rain- inviting me to reminisce on how miserably I failed to sustain my love for my darling and how I lost her.

What I recollect is the rather short however, only from the time I experienced bliss and how it turned to haunting bitterness.

Long before this hour, my life had been full of glee. It was as if Heaven made days for me to see her eyes- oh! what beautiful eyes-  cherish the words her lips speak out- whose lips are more majestic than hers?- and her smile that makes hearts burn with unmanned joy.

And then the rain came- if only I knew what treachery there was in the rain- that a rotten figure, a jester, called Time intervened between me and my muse. He by far is too eager to present and parade his love unto my love that he had won over the hearts of many. But I am sure, as the moon shines upon her beautiful face, that my love exceeds his for his is a mere joke of the heart.

But to my surprise, my muse, vulnerable that she was, too innocent to love and ignorant to mine, fell madly in love with the jester.

From then on, every night, before I close my eyes, I feel the once radiant glow of my chest be demoted to a pale and cold shimmer. All the glorious memories of the her drifted into fragment, so far they drifted that it is an impossibility to recollect them. I can feel it in my very bones, how it emanates from my skin, that this is no longer love I feel but rather the entire opposite of the much abused word. The greenest and cheeriest meadows in my mind turned to a small burning hell. The once loved blues skies of my heart tuned to unwanted gray. But still, I knew this was an emotion that is humanly passionate. A passionate emotion we call hatred.

But not all of my heart had been infected by such negative thoughts. There was still a small fire surviving,  though how much in pain it was in, a miniscule possibility that I would once again adore my most treasured muse.

So then once again, rain came. Do I wait in vain is yet to be known. But it does seem that I was waiting, too foolishly waiting in vain as I saw the couple, the jester and my muse, happily running against the rain. Her eyes never again looked into mine, her smile never intended to give me warmth, and her lips never uttered a syllable of my name. How I wished the downpour grew stronger as they passed me by as they talked- ecstatically talking in a language I wished I never did understand.

And now we return to this faithful hour. The cold mercy of the blade already pressed against my skin as I held my breath and ready to lead it to its purpose. And so I slashed it against my wrist- so quick, so swift, but still I see the dark fountain of blood run down, in its vicious viscosity, to the all-witnessing floor. One by one, I feel my senses be unchained from my mortal body floating away to the infinity of the worlds. And I lied there, unmoving, cold and pale, wetted in my own crimson life, and the only sensation was Death’s frosty embrace while my heart rejoices- unbeating in its triumph.