His head rests on the guillotine. “Off with him,” one utters. “Yeah, we do not need you here. Your kind does not belong here,” a distinct but familiar voice cries out. It is a woozy afternoon, the dark moon illuminates. Strange. Is it a dream? Teleported to a different dimension? A fancy of the writer? This young man is petrified…lips trembling and not willing to die.
When did this start? It never did. When will it end? It never shall. One can discern a certain pattern to things, a guideline for how life usually goes. Certain events have no direct beginning, just a realized progression. When shall this cease? That seems to be the wrong question, rather one ought to ask how it shall cease.
A fire brims in the eyes of this man, not a consumingly destructive one…but a fireplace, inviting respite, fueling its onlookers. Yet is it not true that whatever gives man life, is itself assailed? Ingratitude? Or simply a fear of living? Humanity seems to cling to all life–toil day and night to attain a great one. However, the kernel of what makes a life fulfilling are ignored: Peace, Security, Growth, Love…all these call out to us, all within reach. Despite their justified allure, we run away…sabotage. One must wonder why. Are we afraid of living? Or have we decided that to live is to strip from us a certain nature? That is a question to be dealt with personally.
“I belong here. I am one of you, and you are of me,” Shrieks the boy…” I mustn't die,” he continues. To no avail as the crowd feels pestered, a spokesman appears and utters, “YOU WILL DESTROY US BOY…YOU NEED TO GO.” Destruction? At the hand of a person? This seems strange, for is it not the case we bring destruction upon ourselves? Each through their own whims brings about a disaster; each of their own accord brings about a toiling. We justify them, for if we remain victorious it happened to be some ultimate plan by God. If we fail, it seems to be a snare, a trick of the devil. Or we raise our fists up to the sky…shake them and curse God.
“I must remain, or else you will die,” retorts the boy. Indeed, he must remain, whether enchained or free, he is the life of these folks; they truly cannot do without him, for as soon as he dies, so do they. You see death comes in many ways–but is defined as one thing, the soul being separated from the body. Many fear it, dread it…yet like the great Epicurus said, “If I am death is not, if death is I am not.” Indeed, what are we to fear of a thing that does not evoke a feeling when it occurs? We are so enthralled with both the fear and awe of dying, that one does not realize they have already died. Alas, there appears many living-dead…and that I consider a fate much worse than being buried six feet under…rotting, smelling, fertilizer, and forgotten.
The living-dead are so for one reason, they have forgotten the self. They have lost a major aspect of life…are not tuned to the universe’s language. “Unhand me I say, “cries the boy with fury, “you have no idea what it is you’re doing, you buffoons,” he finally cries out. The crowd is bolsteed (A blending of bolstered and steed, means strengthened with a force that gives momentum.) with rage, for who can reason with the crowd…it is lunacy. They gather around him, this time they say, “FORGET THE GUILLOTINE.” Each grabs a knife, or a bat, their fist or whatever is nearby. Step by step they approach the flame…each takes turns hitting it, beating it, seeking to extinguish it. The boy cries and cries, he pleads and pleads…to no avail. At last, he simply ceases to speak, to cry, and to even utter a cry. Frozen. Gone. Hidden? Dead? He draws his last breath as a young man stabs him, rather mercilessly, and unjustified. “We have rid of him,” they cry. “Praise life, this is the natural course of things, the young must die for the old to be born,” the elder's decree. Foolishness, for it is youth itself and its vigor that keeps life going…it is the insatiable curiosity that gives persistence. It is optimism that leads to hope. It is hope that leads to life, and a hope in life, faith.
They cheer and cheer. They mourn and mourn. It is not that their cheer turns into mourning, but their cheering was always mourning.
A crowd seeks to live, yet extinguishes
The very thing
That gives life.
Yet they persecute within others
That very thing
That gives life.
But who can blame them
For reality is brutal
The child indeed must die?
For one to be.
Remain.
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