Useless
One and Only
He whispered some words to the wind, his melodious voice making it sound more like a song than a prayer. But he knew better, he knew he wasn’t just singing, he was pouring his wishes unto the wind, he was laying his heart out for the wind to carry miles and miles away. He wanted for all he ever wanted to vanish away, to go with the wind, to go away from him.
But it was impossible.
It could never happen.
If it were that simple then everyone will do it, every murderer would go on top of a hill and whisper his murderous actions to the wind and he’ll forget all about ever commiting them, and he’ll be free...That’s why things don’t happen that way. That’s why there’s always a price to pray for whatever you’ve done.
That price, that thing is nothing more than your concience, your mind, your memories.
They’re always there, always there, always there...always, always, always, forever, into infinity.
Memories don’t fade.
The mind mind go queasy, the heart might malfunction but the mind always remembers, always has in a farway room, on the most hidden cabinet, under a pile of big, heavy, books, in between the most innocent-looking tome, in a magical,tiny, post it on the oddest number of pages.
Where no one can take them away, where the human itself cannot reach.
There, oh so freaking far away memories lay there.
That’s why whispering to the wind has no use, no matter how much regret, how much sorrow lies on those words.
You still did what you did.
There’s no turning back.
You can’t turn back time.
You can’t undo what you did before.
You can only cry, and feel sorry and ashamed...and even that won’t change a damn thing.
For actions, once they’re done they’re done. They’re craved into stone, they’re a certainty, they’re undeletable, they’re there.
Even if you cut your hands, even if you kill everyone who knows and end up alone on Earth, it doesn’t change...it never does.
His worthless whispers to the wind made him think about this, about how he could not do anything, how the world was cruel but just at the same time.
And he was powerless.
He didn’t like it, he didn’t like not to control things.
It was too much for him, not to control what he wanted, that’s what lead him to the useless blaberring on top of the hill.
For he had killed, his hands had been washed in blood.
He had killed, murdered, torn apart, shredded.....shooed the life away from the body.
And he couldn’t take it back.
And he couldn’t live with that.
And he was helpless, powerless....and he hated it.
He really did.
So he jumped.
He jumped, jumped, jumped.
And it didn’t help at all.
For he had killed, he had sinned...and it doesn’t go away.
He killed, he felt sorry, he whispered, he prayed, he knew it wasn’t enough, he jumped and it all remained the same.
She was still dead...except she wasn’t.
Among her own blood, her body twitched, her eyes opened, and she looked around.
Alone, abandoned, harmed, injured....but alive.
Unlike him.
She survived.
But it was impossible.
It could never happen.
If it were that simple then everyone will do it, every murderer would go on top of a hill and whisper his murderous actions to the wind and he’ll forget all about ever commiting them, and he’ll be free...That’s why things don’t happen that way. That’s why there’s always a price to pray for whatever you’ve done.
That price, that thing is nothing more than your concience, your mind, your memories.
They’re always there, always there, always there...always, always, always, forever, into infinity.
Memories don’t fade.
The mind mind go queasy, the heart might malfunction but the mind always remembers, always has in a farway room, on the most hidden cabinet, under a pile of big, heavy, books, in between the most innocent-looking tome, in a magical,tiny, post it on the oddest number of pages.
Where no one can take them away, where the human itself cannot reach.
There, oh so freaking far away memories lay there.
That’s why whispering to the wind has no use, no matter how much regret, how much sorrow lies on those words.
You still did what you did.
There’s no turning back.
You can’t turn back time.
You can’t undo what you did before.
You can only cry, and feel sorry and ashamed...and even that won’t change a damn thing.
For actions, once they’re done they’re done. They’re craved into stone, they’re a certainty, they’re undeletable, they’re there.
Even if you cut your hands, even if you kill everyone who knows and end up alone on Earth, it doesn’t change...it never does.
His worthless whispers to the wind made him think about this, about how he could not do anything, how the world was cruel but just at the same time.
And he was powerless.
He didn’t like it, he didn’t like not to control things.
It was too much for him, not to control what he wanted, that’s what lead him to the useless blaberring on top of the hill.
For he had killed, his hands had been washed in blood.
He had killed, murdered, torn apart, shredded.....shooed the life away from the body.
And he couldn’t take it back.
And he couldn’t live with that.
And he was helpless, powerless....and he hated it.
He really did.
So he jumped.
He jumped, jumped, jumped.
And it didn’t help at all.
For he had killed, he had sinned...and it doesn’t go away.
He killed, he felt sorry, he whispered, he prayed, he knew it wasn’t enough, he jumped and it all remained the same.
She was still dead...except she wasn’t.
Among her own blood, her body twitched, her eyes opened, and she looked around.
Alone, abandoned, harmed, injured....but alive.
Unlike him.
She survived.