Cold

Darkness, rage, sadness, eternal tears. Waves of red and black flow across the vision of my subconscious. Huddling under the veneer of my carefully controlled look of calm. My patience, my caring, my love gone. Nothing inside me. I cannot feel. I feel I have lost my grasp of the reality of my life. I want to do nothing. I work on automatic like a bad wind up toy from the dollar store. You can almost hear my springs and wheels groaning under the strain they never should have been put under. I wonder how long until I explode in flash of pain and sadness. I try to drown it out. Music pumps into my head from the earphones I wear. The volume loud, almost deafening. After all, while I realize and accept what has happened to me. I live in place that does not understand such things, in all they do not even comprehend such things. So I hide these things as I always have. They sit in the den, watching the television. Unaware of the spiral into darkness their supposed “son” has just undertaken. Unaware of the pumping music, adding tone and feeling to my rage, to my darkness. If I am truly an angel, then I must truly be a dark angel. My black wings have opened. I raise my head and close my eyes. A feeling flows through me. Almost like the ecstasy written about by saints. I have felt it before. It was a feeling of peace, of love, almost bringing me to tears each time it happened. But it has changed. Now it feels like a rush of water, cold but not refreshing. A wind rushing by, not caressing but chilling. I feel almost light headed. My rage flows over me in waves of red and black. This has been mounting for days, weeks. I have no explanation or reasoning behind it. It has come out of nowhere. The darkness of the shadows maybe. If one were to look at me right now one could never tell. I look calm, almost sleepy. That is, until you look into my eyes. Really look into my eyes. To see the ice blue flames of rage. My fingers feel energized, but not out of the creative essence of my left handed artistic side. I want the feeling of combat, the flow of weapon and of strength. My hand forms a fist and I want to hit something. But it would not solve anything. Besides alerting the people of this house that there might be something wrong. Something that none of them could ever help with. No, it is far too late for any of them to help me. Forgotten I am, except to help with their own problems. So, slowly, with great effort, I open my hand, relax it and fight back the tendency to hit something. Darkness, rage, sadness, eternal tears. It all flows over me. But to everyone else I will appear as normal, maybe a little tired, but nothing more. I am the world’s greatest actor, for I have been working in the business of being someone else since I was born. Once could say I was born into this. But no matter. For now I realize that I have probably said far too much. But I have seen far too much for my lifetime. Off I go to see what else there is to life. And may the ecstasy I feel turn beautiful once again.

Damien

P.S. To anyone that’s read this far, I’m sorry. I’m sure this wasn’t something you wanted to hear or read.