Morning's always felt the best, depending on what had happened the day before. I could not tell you how many times I spent my day listening to her high-pitched screaming throughout the day, just to go to sleep and wake up to a new day of silence. I could not tell you how many times she would lure me over to her dwelling place in complete indignation towards her behavior, and yet still manage to get me stuck in the trap. If you did not live in these parts of town you probably would have no idea what "the trap" was, or how it even looked like. You, my friend, would then be knighted by all that's good in the world as ideal.
I laugh at the thought of one being, "ideal." Oh the things I could do with all that power! Just think! The strength of a thousand men, the laugh like a clap of thunder, and the grace like a million little sprites all floating together towards the sun. Now, there is talk around these parts that there is such a thing as, "idealism." I do not know if I believe in such a thing, but I'm writing because I am on a journey to find this so-called "ideal" lifestyle.. I am not afraid to spend the rest of my life in search for what could be a better life.
The itching possibility that the reason I can even fathom the thoughts of an ideal life must be because there is something greater than myself. I mean anything is better than a life surrounded by "her majesty's" death defying cries and ear-pinching fingernails every night on my bedroom walls. She has no love for even her most loyal of subjects, and no love for her most closest of friends. She hates. Oh, the most disturbing kind of hate! The kind of hate that wakes you up at night, grabs you by your body and allows you to feel the pouring out of her cold and poisoned heart.
I have woken up to her at night before....and it is sad to say, but I have also even found myself going to bed with her at night. The one I have attempted to flee and fight against with earth's strongest and toughest brigade of soldiers, and yet in the end have only been encouraging her to keep ravaging on in her pursuit against life itself.
She has seduced me...and no doubt on this journey will seek to seduce me again. The venom on her tongue has become more than addicting, and she has learned how to grasp her claws around my throat to get me to follow her will. But, what if there were something greater? Something greater than life and death itself. What if idealism was greater than what I could imagine? What if the only way I could find it was through the ideal opening my eyes to see it? There is not much else one could ask a man to do, than which he already has done and already has experienced, unless, his experience was everlasting and could never perish -- this is what seems to be what man finds as most ideal.
I laugh at the thought of one being, "ideal." Oh the things I could do with all that power! Just think! The strength of a thousand men, the laugh like a clap of thunder, and the grace like a million little sprites all floating together towards the sun. Now, there is talk around these parts that there is such a thing as, "idealism." I do not know if I believe in such a thing, but I'm writing because I am on a journey to find this so-called "ideal" lifestyle.. I am not afraid to spend the rest of my life in search for what could be a better life.
The itching possibility that the reason I can even fathom the thoughts of an ideal life must be because there is something greater than myself. I mean anything is better than a life surrounded by "her majesty's" death defying cries and ear-pinching fingernails every night on my bedroom walls. She has no love for even her most loyal of subjects, and no love for her most closest of friends. She hates. Oh, the most disturbing kind of hate! The kind of hate that wakes you up at night, grabs you by your body and allows you to feel the pouring out of her cold and poisoned heart.
I have woken up to her at night before....and it is sad to say, but I have also even found myself going to bed with her at night. The one I have attempted to flee and fight against with earth's strongest and toughest brigade of soldiers, and yet in the end have only been encouraging her to keep ravaging on in her pursuit against life itself.
She has seduced me...and no doubt on this journey will seek to seduce me again. The venom on her tongue has become more than addicting, and she has learned how to grasp her claws around my throat to get me to follow her will. But, what if there were something greater? Something greater than life and death itself. What if idealism was greater than what I could imagine? What if the only way I could find it was through the ideal opening my eyes to see it? There is not much else one could ask a man to do, than which he already has done and already has experienced, unless, his experience was everlasting and could never perish -- this is what seems to be what man finds as most ideal.
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