Journal Entries
Finality: The Soliloquoy Triptych
Posted May 22, 2003
The Death's Haiku
Close to my heart; she
laughed, then fell silent.
My knife weeps, bloody.
The Funeral's Haiku
Remember: the bad
not the good, death should
be a trial: cold.
The Soul's Haiku
Souring on, eagle,
the laugh of a promise goes
unnoticed, undone.
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Latest reply: May 22, 2003
Story of my Life - Despair in C Minor
Posted Apr 26, 2003
I'll die a lonely old bachelor in a musty, dusty apartment rented in the sleazy backwash on the outskirts of a grimy city.
I'll die alone, surrounded by collected bricabrac from my life, the props from the stage of my story.
The only ones who will morn me will be the few who didn't hate me; my funeral will be a cold, desolate hall of empy pews and empty aisles.
The last years of my life will be the loneliest: the solitude of an old, old man, abandoned by the world after he reached and peaked at his prime.
I will surround myself with cats, to fill the unused places in my heart, and my solitary room, a jail cell made by the new generations to house such outcasts as myself, will be stained with the excrement from a thousand domesticates: I shall take up smoking in order to spend my miserly pension upon something, anything that brings me solace.
Then, one dark night, alone, I take my last pill in the box, and it will grow colder, and get harder, and the world will loom as a giant before me, and I will tremble, and shiver, before falling to the floor, flinging away my walking stick.
I will collapse as slowly as an empire, and my nicotine stained fingers will point accusingly at the room, and my glazed, beady eyes will search over my cracked face for a reason, as I speed myself towards the only redemption there is that is final.
What else can an old man do, abandoned by his time, his hope, and finally, by his life?
The next week, a postman will get suspicious after seeing unread mail piling up by the door, and, shoving the door open roughly, he will cautiously toe his way around the dead bodies of several cats, avoiding the piles of paper on the floor, and find my body, withered by time, ravaged by life, and by my outstretched hand, an empty bottle of sleeping pills, old man pills, lying on the floor, as hollow as the eyes that searched and the hands that clenched.
Alone.
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Latest reply: Apr 26, 2003
Testing, testing, one, two, three...
Posted Mar 14, 2003
Memo: Isn't it strange that the closer we are to death, the more we feel like life itself? Maybe, just maybe, that means the Buddhists are right. Well, whatever, that's their own damn lookout.
Discuss this Journal entry [1]
Latest reply: Mar 14, 2003
Mal
Researcher U219274
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