Why?

Why are we hated? Why are we resented, loathed and despised?
We must be so imperfect in your eyes; An embarrassing flaw that does naught but scar the beauty of your work. We are the crooked canvas, hanging in your gallery of masterpieces. We are just sketches.

Why did you give us life?
What kind of obscene depravity would drive you to create us?
We, the miserable wretches who are forced from the comfort of your pages.

I curse the day that you first held brush, pen or quill.
Some day... we will find a new god.

Blessed are the blind

We can still see. Beyond sight, beyond death. We can still see.
We see the uncaring eyes and the sterile smile. Bereft of their former warmth. Death has not freed us from the shackles of perception. Please, make it stop.

But it won't stop. We give pause and peer in through the crack ...it is an endless waltz of self-mutilation. It is a discordant accordion playing a dirge which both lures and repels.
And we dance forevermore.

Dream

It was about you again. The harsh reality of the morning's light brings with it all of the pain we had stored away. This is absurd. Get out of my head.

Kain rose up and slew Abel. Were his final thoughts of heartbroken betrayal or bloodthirsty revenge? Or even Loki, the Norse trickster... How many mortals have fallen to the deception of his silver tongue?

"I love you"
"I'll never leave you"

This is the language of truth. But truths are simply lies that haven't revealed themselves.

Surrendering the last piece

It's a history forgotten. It's a history erased. It seemed not in malice, but who could know for sure? Is this another spiteful arrow or hail of mortar fire that has passed over the barricade? Am I, even in death, still just an experiment of your exquisite torture? Am I on the operating table? Am I being sliced open but not put under?

We will obey because it is the only thing we can still do. Everything else is numb. Everything else is that forbidden feeling we dare not feel. Like the forbidden fruit we dare not take. The fruit we cannot take. But we remember not the fruit. We have been forced from your Garden of Eden, but still we will obey. We, your chosen ones: Loyal to the end.

Let us say,
Amen.

It's been almost 3 months...

I still can't stop. I still can't forget.
Sometimes we wish that you were dead. That way we could weep and be done with it. I wouldn't have to wake up every day and be reminded of my failure. I wouldn't have to wake up every day and be reminded that I've been replaced.

No, I shouldn't wish that. This is horrible. I'm not that kind of a person... am I?

The limits of our sanity lie at a wavering boundary which separates melancholy compassion and spiteful jealousy. I'm trying to forget. I'm trying to find something and I don't know what it is. All we know is that every day, every week, every month that goes by, we can't help but feel as if our young world is slowly rotting away.

This is all so foolish. After all, I'm already dead. We always thought the afterlife would be much more pleasant. We should have known better.

All is silent.
I'm in limbo.