Janus of the Gates

Ah it's been another year.

More actually, but...

A year without words to say.

A year without words to feel.

Thats a long period of indifference. Sometimes, well most of the time, this walk down the road we must all travel, this journey that thrusted upon us, this life that defines everything we are yet begs meaning of us... it still renders me inexplicably, haplessly, unforgivingly stranded in the only place I've ever been. Pages flip on yet somehow I forever find fragments of myself, two chapters ahead, two chapters behind.

I've tried to ignore it, the sirens slow silent sigh, but it beckons ever so seductively, ah so hesistant, so willingly do i court melancholy.

Recent event have done nothing to renew my faith in myself. If you're wondering why i haven't had post up regularly since 05, (which you won't since this is a lazarus blog that nobody visits anymore, and therefore 'you' strictly speaking exist as nothing more than a figment of my megalomania) its just cause words are my manifest soul, and for a long time there has been nothing to say. Do 'you' get me? 

Who do they see when they speak to shadows?

A being of myth and legend, a legion; a cacophony of a thousand voices in a mockery of song, or a silhouette of a friend holding out his hands; sheltering understanding within his fingers and palms? 

The will to stride down this path has long forsaken me. A weak traveler who has had naught but a smooth journey, complaining of trivial aches and the dust of the road in his eyes. He has heard and seen others down this path in which all paths end, some better dressed, most equally as lost, some with broken bones and missing limbs limping along with broad smiles on their faces. At times he travels in a band, but mostly and especially then they all truly walk alone. Men and women both has he met with gaping holes in their chests, so they search and they pine for the tinman's gift at the emerald city. In some of these incompletes this burgeoning thirsts assumes a darker aspect. That which they lack, they seek to steal. Vampires they become. leeches and bloodsuckers that cut open hearts and feast, turning others incomplete, giving rise occassionally to another of their selfish number. Flocks of children in their parents clothes crowd the road, assuming looks of sneering contempt upon their peers. The noble and godtouched walk alongside on the same gravel but are transcended by their grace, of these he knows little but tales. 

For long he had trudged grudgingly on, some steps coming easier and some faster but all blur together in his head as his eyes are turned downwards at his own feet, no longer did he watch the lives of others, no longer giving a care or a try to bring coherence to it. Then mindlessly he glanced up and saw the path he had walked while in a daze. He saw the steps he took, the choices he'd abstained. He saw. He saw, but he could not mend, for then he knew he was worse than the incompletes. Theirs was missing what they once had. His was yearning, but for what he has never known. But then perhaps he was only incomplete, and that is how all of them think themselves.

Emotion is a fickle thing. It appears and lingers at the worst of times, and vanishes without a scent when grasped for. It looks for home when none is to be found, then walks out the door when the nails are down. 

My head, my head. 

Call the Queen of Hearts for my head. 

There you go... passion to make up for a year, my anata. I will never leave you, mia amore of gray and silver.