Aug. 04, 2003 - 1:38 p.m.
What fragile shells, these weak bodies we inhabit. When the very essense that brings this husk alive is so full of passion and power and strength.
Why have we been punished by this existence which lacks magic and beauty? Why are we forever shrouded in these dirty linens of skin and hair that live in a small world of specific hues? Why are we shunned when we try to bring beauty and art to our bodies?
This world is dull, with a mere five senses on which to rely. Everything is covered in dust and stinks of depression.
We ache and we suffer and we die. Where is the hope that should embody our every breath? What treasonous act have I commited to land me in such foul a place?
I miss life, true life. I miss shedding my skin and waking up to a warmth that shoots through my being. I miss words that are felt in intimate places.
We are subject to time and space and mortality and pain. These things that are so alien to our soul and are, without doubt, the very embodiment of hellish existence. The final straw is that, in a place of quiet and truth, we remember that we are so much more.
In ripping off the blinders of this mortal cloak, we understand the prison that ensnares us and know there is no release.
