The Balcony Scene
Darkness
Hell. Many people think that it's a festering cesspool of decaying souls and shattered hopes all run by a red man with a pointed tail and pitch fork.
The Devil. He isn't a rouge demon with horns that schemes to sway the moral of the still living. He isn't ugly. He is beautiful. He was once one of God's favorites.
I have mixed emotions on whether or not Heaven and Hell really frighten and or amaze me. Frankly, I have mixed emotions about the living world as it is. It doesn't have much to offer anyone, let alone me. Life is a wasteland.
Everyone thinks I'm so lucky to be living the life I am, but in reality I am a miserable shell of myself. I've had every single privilege handed to me on a gold platter with someone ready to wipe away the crumbs when I'm finished. I was the "golden child" for a good portion of my life; making it extremely difficult to get away with anything fun.
Truly the only thing that kept me from going off the edge, pulling the plug, popping pills, or bed hopping was D. He only ever let me call him D for some reason, not that I objected to it. He was like the Devil to me. He had twisted thoughts and sometimes tainted my mind, making it difficult for me to clearly see the difference between right and wrong; he was also beautiful. His dark, curly hair framed his strong jaw and gave the illusion that he was taller than he actually was. The most alluring thing about him though were his eyes, so blue they seemed to be hand made by God himself so those who looked into them felt only hope and love.
He was my salvation, my hero, my rehab, my love. I needed him more than Christianity needed the reformation, more than my father downed his whiskey, and more than my mother adored her pearls. Of course he believed I was privileged, but more in the way that I had outer and inner beauty, knowledge, and a pure heart. He used to say, "Not a lot of women can be gorgeous when they smile and when they speak" and of course his words only made me love him more. Maybe it was my mistake to love him...
D was so different from I. Mentally and emotionally we were complete equals, but physically and socially he and I might as well have been black and white. I had oblivious parents too ignorant to believe anything bad; he grew up with a loving mother that pushed for him to do only his best. I succeeded in school academically while he thrived socially. I was a prisoner in my home while he had been chained alone in his mind, left to rot with his mistakes.
D was the best thing I never knew I needed, but we were a gasoline coated affair about to ignite.
The Devil. He isn't a rouge demon with horns that schemes to sway the moral of the still living. He isn't ugly. He is beautiful. He was once one of God's favorites.
I have mixed emotions on whether or not Heaven and Hell really frighten and or amaze me. Frankly, I have mixed emotions about the living world as it is. It doesn't have much to offer anyone, let alone me. Life is a wasteland.
Everyone thinks I'm so lucky to be living the life I am, but in reality I am a miserable shell of myself. I've had every single privilege handed to me on a gold platter with someone ready to wipe away the crumbs when I'm finished. I was the "golden child" for a good portion of my life; making it extremely difficult to get away with anything fun.
Truly the only thing that kept me from going off the edge, pulling the plug, popping pills, or bed hopping was D. He only ever let me call him D for some reason, not that I objected to it. He was like the Devil to me. He had twisted thoughts and sometimes tainted my mind, making it difficult for me to clearly see the difference between right and wrong; he was also beautiful. His dark, curly hair framed his strong jaw and gave the illusion that he was taller than he actually was. The most alluring thing about him though were his eyes, so blue they seemed to be hand made by God himself so those who looked into them felt only hope and love.
He was my salvation, my hero, my rehab, my love. I needed him more than Christianity needed the reformation, more than my father downed his whiskey, and more than my mother adored her pearls. Of course he believed I was privileged, but more in the way that I had outer and inner beauty, knowledge, and a pure heart. He used to say, "Not a lot of women can be gorgeous when they smile and when they speak" and of course his words only made me love him more. Maybe it was my mistake to love him...
D was so different from I. Mentally and emotionally we were complete equals, but physically and socially he and I might as well have been black and white. I had oblivious parents too ignorant to believe anything bad; he grew up with a loving mother that pushed for him to do only his best. I succeeded in school academically while he thrived socially. I was a prisoner in my home while he had been chained alone in his mind, left to rot with his mistakes.
D was the best thing I never knew I needed, but we were a gasoline coated affair about to ignite.