the story of my death poetry interruption: Glassed In

Endless groping
through the dense hollow vacuum of
nothing where everything lies
but cannot be reached, ceaseless
perpetual ventures into the beyond
just beside us, just outside
our grasp, outside
of the thick
glass boxes that protect
and divide, that instantly,
will shatter into trillions of
infinitesimal splinters and specks at the
slightest breach; a house of cards, yet
a shelter nonetheless.
And all these, the cells of
safety, our very own dainty
glass menagerie, pretty, perfect
and sterile to the untouch
of the human condition, keep us steady,
and stagnant, and stoic, as we
suffocate inside ourselves,
our scrupulously sculpted glass rooms,
less we shatter their sublime structure
and risk exposure
to the breath of
the other.

the story of my death part 2

The story of my death is a complex one, yet not one without order and structure. There are periods in one’s life that are so impacting and effective that one never truly recovers from their force. Sometimes the blow is so hard and so low that its mark remains permanent and indestructible, its imprint forever lingering. For experiences do affect, and sometimes the penetration is truly real. These experiences cannot be shaken off for they have penetrated too deeply into the very grain of our being and consciousness. That is simply the truth of the matter. I had reached the point of no return. A chord had been struck, a paradigm shift truly achieved and I had been forever changed.

the story of my death

It was as if someone had reached out in front of me, out from the vast hullabaloo of nothingness all around me, had entered my intimate space and shattered the fragile bit of hope that lingered; as if a sudden single hand had reached out directly before me, grabbed my fleshy throat and choked all the breath of desire and comfort without my even knowing it; as if an earthquake had thrust the foundations of my innards open and swallowed all sense of passion that had burned within me. The powerful words emanated from his mouth, gliding on a straight and direct line of airy breath like the sharp arrow of death, blowing across my face and bombarding its way into my soul, casting a frozen chill over all that was once warm. The wisp grew large and at once became suffocating, like a tornado that with its forceful wisp swept away the warm love from my heart and left my soul chilled and naked, shamed and embarrassed. I had been robbed of these, my most precious possessions, and left bare and empty, I felt myself begin to shrivel up, like a dried fig, or an autumn leaf that had lost all its vibrancy and pigment to the harsh calling of the seasons. And there on the bustling street corner, I was dead.

There are moments in time that are defining moments, defining of character, of sentiment and of the future. The eras in one’s life are formed by these individual moments and these epochal eras string together to create the dramatic structure of the life of the individual. This moment was particular in the sense that it struck the end note of the epoch, the end note which essentially formed the very epoch itself; for it is only the end which creates and defines the beginning, creates and defines the set, and which is in that sense the single most defining moment of all.