People like Echo
J. and Victor are born spiritually sick, for that kind they know not
what they do. They lived in a starving world and that hunger drove
them mad. Only by feeding on each other, in a childish sin did they
become clean. They vandalized passion, as they grappled, biting,
clawing, and screaming among the refuge of darkness. It was beyond
the pale, though some, most, wouldn't notice. Between the midnight
blue and charcoal grays, they struggled to become one, the stronger
became the weaker, the lesser became the greater. In that
circumstance, of biting, clawing and screaming they vanished. Two,
pretending to be one, seeking to flee the high horses they paraded.
Mostly for one, hard to tell which, it was an escape, a call to
worship seeking forgiveness and salvation. Mostly for the other, hard
to tell which, a way to spiritual union before a tabernacle of gilded
dreams and straight out lies.
For Victor, she
was a shrine to worship, for in that embrace he turned his back to
his own sins. For a brief idolatrous time, an hour of apostasy, he
felt human again, not the murderous wrathful thug, not the man that
carried a bounty on his head. He, the part of him that is a thug,
that keeps what he kills latched onto her and kept. Victor would look
in the mirror and see a real killer stare coldly back.
As for Echo, she
kept what she came with, the ignominy she wrongly assigned to
herself. She wrought her own chains of sorrows. It allowed her to
flee and put out of sight, her own authentic disgrace and remorse.
She in moments of lucidity would see a prostitute in the mirror of
her soul.
Somewhere between
lunar white and onyx black is the truth. In there is why they
wrestled with and against each other. His back to one side and her
face to the other, twisting around eyes wide shut to what should've
been an act of beauty. If he ever looked at the small truth, and he
eventually did, is they both wanted better, both knew better, and
they intentionally missed the mark. Instead, each week a new poison;
they bit each other, they clawed each other, and they knifed each
other. After all that's what thugs do.
The big truth
being, they were afraid. Furthermore, that lovely, opulent rapture is
exactly what kept them two halves. If Victor had the wisdom to
forgive himself he could've been the husband, he wanted to be for
her. If she, in a moment of clarity gave halt to her martyrdom and
become her true self-a devoted pious wife- all would've been
splendid. Instead, they continued to roll in the muck while
screaming, clawing, and biting.
People like Echo J. and Victor are born spiritually sick, for that
kind they know not what they do. If anything, they should've
worshiped together sooner, for only then, they were free.
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