Dead Man Writing

Sometimes you stand atop a crest and realise that there is nothing around you except that crest which was built upon the foundation of your own skin and sinew. Waifs come through and waifs go through; wraiths linger on, feed and move on. (Those wraiths... how I hate those god-be-damned wraiths.)

Under the grooves of a silent hymn one could almost hear a mellow vibration; a faint murmur in a temperate tone calling out but three constant beats, "You're stoo-pid." The magnitude of the reverberation shatters the very soul for I am surrounded by nothing and nothing is a lot. It reminds me of my loneliness and the condition of my loneliness. After all, it stands to reason that if one hears a tune long enough, it should be imprinted quite boldly within the psyche. That I realise my stupidity is a good enough start for the new year.

Enough. Why are you so cryptic?

Ah... yes... I over-indulge and explain I shall.

"I shall explain" - you mean. Whatever. Now what's all this nonsense about you standing on your own skin and sinew?

The feeling that one gets in moments of dire idiocy. It feels like I stand above the battlements of war and claim victory but I rest upon my own corpse. This 'war' you are not privy to know. It is internal, inter-personal, and a burden I carry in clandestine.

Fine... Well, is the war over a person? A thing? A context?

The person is the war and the war is sutured in my naivity and idiocy. Do not ask me to explain further. I may only provide a succint justification.

I wish you would be less succinct. Anyway, you said you hated wraiths. What or who are these hell-spawned wraiths?

People who are less than things - beasts, fools and grubs. People who never veil the truth but offer truths that are always half-lies. These un-people feed upon fear, feed upon passion and feed upon spirit. These insatiable fiends find pleasure in one's pleasure until one is a husk and in that emptiness they find the void fuelling a different desire - a desire to fill that space with pain and humiliation. What is worst than hell-spawned? Nothing. Indeed, that is what the wraiths circle within - nothing. And surrounded by nothing I am surrounded by wraiths.

Why aren't you a wraith then?

I am dead. Temporarily, yes, I'm dead. Nothing can't touch me because remember that nothing is a lot and a lot of nothing must be a lot of something yes? Wraiths are no exception. But it's lonely here you know. Very lonely. I wish there was more company of dead men. It would be 'nice'. But it's funny... we never seem to find each other. I wonder why?

So... what's the context of your stu-pi-di-ty?

Isn't it obvious? Why, I'm dead! It is quite remarkably stupid to kill oneself don't you think? To kill emotions, to kill passion, to kill affectivities. Quite remarkably stupid I must say. But then again, if I wasn't dead, I would have never seen these wraiths. Ah... the irony... oh... the irony... could be a song...

That's all right. Last question... You said temporarily dead?

Oh yes, temporarily dead. You know - sleeping beauty, prince charming, kiss on the bloody lips, a shag on the turret after revival. Something like that. But until then, quite happily dead thank you. Quite happy indeed.