What A Mirror Provoked...

Not music, I haven't gotten around to that yet... too much going on in the personal life...
This is just an old Live Journal post - Apr. 29th, 2008 at 5:04 AM.. -it's good, and I want to put it up. Oh the strangeness of my mind...

What is it to move past the mirror and see yourself as though you were dead?


A strange phantom-esc life burns stubbornly from haunted eyes.
The face, the skin, as pale and lifeless as snow.
Hair, like some sort of still fire; locks of blood dried against my cheek and temple.


There is a dual visage, more to what seems there tonight... more beyond, just past.

A specter what haunts this place, a lingering thing, mere remains and residue.
Without doubt I am made constantly to comprehend this, there is no moment I do not feel the chilling, soul-sapping influence.
The weight in my every limb, I know the pain as bits of me flake away to dissolve in the silence. This silence that is endlessly with me, endlessly it hounds me, ever within me, ever part of me.
It culls my voice into itself, I cannot cry out. Creates my movements leaden and dull.
Leaves despondency and blank staring all I am capable.


I am resigned.





Usually, I play the ‘good sport’ about it. Usually, I take the good, accept the ill and allow not that black robe of soullessness to touch me.

Miserably, mournfully, it is not so tonight.
Tonight I am the ghoul.
A wretched thing that has pulled it’s decrepit self from the recesses of it’s long forgotten resting place. This resting place where it has just been waiting anxiously, hopeless of movement, for that moment when all the foulness and depravity of it’s nature became enough to give it a cursed sort of subsequent life.


In such a state I shadow the rooms of this building, each designated space so full of human evidence. Things reside here… they sleep blissfully unawares now.


There are others like myself. As a pair of watery, soulless eyes looks beseechingly into my own I am well aware of the others, as they are so aware of me.
This one, she finds no quarter, just the same void she is attempting to find solace from.
There is no solace tonight, no warmth. I can only extend the cold nothingness I suffer.
I can only embrace them into the remnant nightmare that I remain.


They want none of me, and I want nothing, save perhaps, the silence I run from and hate.






Time passes.






Alone, still alone, forever alone, it grates on my essence for the rawness and crassness this solitude blossoms in me. Leaves me unused and fumbling in the tongue these living speak. It is not my native dialect, not by a long shot…

However, it becomes no more than a nuisance in light of other things.



My insides scream. I am burning in pain, and there is no respite, no reprieve. Miraculously, you would not know it to look upon me; my face is as blank, impartial, and morose as death.





What is it to move past the mirror and see yourself as though you were dead?
Exactly that I suppose…
or perhaps just the first dawning of the slow inner realization that you are still just too damn stubborn to admit, and there in relent, to the fact that you are already dead and have been so for millennia.

Like the bodies I severed the heads from so long ago, I am walking those final two steps unawares, unsuspecting... in the end it doesn't matter.
All still fall in sweet, certain torrent...
It is a contemptuous and pleasing thing; both, instantaneously.