It is the annoying habit of written words that they tend to resurface.
These words mean nothing to me anymore nor the person to whom I gifted them.
Yet they remind me. Not of memories or lessons but of images. I remember
everything that I've ever seen and I wish I could forget half of it. That is as
my dad calls it "the curse of a good memory" but I'm not bothered by them, I am
further than I have ever been from being bothered by the past. The title is a
click bait but I still believe that "The past is a place only fitting for the
So let us summon the spirit of dead words.
I’m writing this on 21st Jan 2019 but remember that time is liquid
I burn on the inside and The mask remains a jaded stone Words become sharp as blades, Lest I let them see the smoke!
Ah I lost the rest of this ...
we are the victims of our own curse Sahar, the curse of a frozen tear, a crooked stick and a wilted belladonna, a drop of blood and some bones. we are the slaves of our minds, and the mind is chained and impaled to this repulsive mortal corpse, snuffed in pain and buried alive in words and visions of what would be and could be and words and words and O words thou art my Neron! Let it burn, dissolve, disintegrate and watch Sahar just watch… shamed are the violates and roses when the words die. O dreadful Dawn arch o’er me, with the arms of the beast and eyes of the cosmos and let who availeth at this, be the chief of all for that is all there is…
I’m sitting in front of you, right next to the horrible red neon light... let’s talk about our national identity and the semiotics of our repulsive eastern theater. Do we even have an identity as a whole? I think not! We are a fusion of things that were and aren’t anymore and things we wished to be and we are not. We are a fusion of lost dreams and desires. All the things we are not, makes what we are. We are lost in apathy A nation of absolutely no history worth learning Speaking in a raped tongue that’s impregnated with alien seed over and over. Words will always betray you Sahar, remember that.
I remember that red neon light, it gave everything an unholy vibe, not that I
like holy things anyway ...
Life is a tide of constant dying, every moment you’ve lived, you’ve died. Your thoughts, your memories and your entire existence falls to the swamp of past. We are all “Kharon”. “Ne Obliviscaris” screams the Geist of Time. Our history rebukes us, our heritage repents us, as did God. “I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them”