m.o.o.d.
I can see you are like me, most morose friend. These are not words of comfort, these thoughts between you and I, are not a safe harbor, nor a place to find shelter from the things that some day may be. This is common ground we tread now, your furtive glances see the same as mine. Our misgivings are born of the same realities.
When did you come to this secret? Where did you first walk that you realized the thorns which held strong were lacking for the rose? This thing is true, a sad truth that is held for much longer than the rose, though the bards do not espouse it, such a thing does not make it any less true.
But be certain, such things should not harden the heart, and you should not shrink from the joys which life will assuredly afford you, quite the opposite. You would be well served to lose yourself, as earnestly, and wholly as you can, in whatever it is that breaks against the odds, and runs for sunshine. For this is not the rule, these things are neither promised, nor certain, despite everything you were ever brought up to believe.
No, these waning days are a long march into the darkness towards a daybreak we will not see. This is not a call for ruin though, and you should not lay your hopes down, weary as they may be from the struggle. Rather you should steel your resolve against the inevitable, and take up against all that is wrong, all that is unjust. It is in these battles that you can find shelter, it is with the thought in mind of what good you managed to do with your hour upon the stage that you will know solace.
Your name, my beleaguered friend, is destined to be made only after you have spied the horizon, and have known the darkness. Only then can you come back, and truly smile the weary smile of those resigned to fight for goodness, even though the battle was long ago lost to an improbable and unknowing foe, impervious though he has seen all. Unaware of all that has been lost, unmoved by the many days that were, but are no more.
This is the magnum opus of the damned. These words do not espouse the beauty of the rose, these are the words of the desert flower, the desperate.
There are no dirges befitting annihilation, just the ghost whispers of silence. Dignity in the meantime is the noble choice. A resolve for decency, despite that high rattling whine which even now carries the embers of everything we've ever known away.
Though we know nothing now, as we are soon to be gone.
When did you come to this secret? Where did you first walk that you realized the thorns which held strong were lacking for the rose? This thing is true, a sad truth that is held for much longer than the rose, though the bards do not espouse it, such a thing does not make it any less true.
But be certain, such things should not harden the heart, and you should not shrink from the joys which life will assuredly afford you, quite the opposite. You would be well served to lose yourself, as earnestly, and wholly as you can, in whatever it is that breaks against the odds, and runs for sunshine. For this is not the rule, these things are neither promised, nor certain, despite everything you were ever brought up to believe.
No, these waning days are a long march into the darkness towards a daybreak we will not see. This is not a call for ruin though, and you should not lay your hopes down, weary as they may be from the struggle. Rather you should steel your resolve against the inevitable, and take up against all that is wrong, all that is unjust. It is in these battles that you can find shelter, it is with the thought in mind of what good you managed to do with your hour upon the stage that you will know solace.
Your name, my beleaguered friend, is destined to be made only after you have spied the horizon, and have known the darkness. Only then can you come back, and truly smile the weary smile of those resigned to fight for goodness, even though the battle was long ago lost to an improbable and unknowing foe, impervious though he has seen all. Unaware of all that has been lost, unmoved by the many days that were, but are no more.
This is the magnum opus of the damned. These words do not espouse the beauty of the rose, these are the words of the desert flower, the desperate.
There are no dirges befitting annihilation, just the ghost whispers of silence. Dignity in the meantime is the noble choice. A resolve for decency, despite that high rattling whine which even now carries the embers of everything we've ever known away.
Though we know nothing now, as we are soon to be gone.
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