The phantom heart 4

But why couldn’t my feelings matter?  Why couldn’t they have value, like cash has value. Because anything real doesn’t exist here anymore.  Everything real flows on, obscured by the sun, eclipsed by the reality existing in front of our faces.  And his shadow looms over me and his voice and his sweat, and the taste of it never leaves my mouth.  As I exist here alone, no one reaches for me.  The only thing I can do as I reach passed the sun, scattering the shadows as all of the voices reverberate as noise and I can only hear the beat, the beating which I lost so long ago.  I attempt to stand and raise my eyes, looking upon the path before me, walking through the doorway of the long forgotten path always existing in the back of my mind.  If I close my eyes I can still only see their claws and the empty, angry look upon their faces, lost in the swirling whirlwind of what they let themselves exist as.  Fires rage upon the crescent moon above my head and I no longer know what to think.  I can no longer define if what appears before me has solidity in reality or breathes as a figment of my own imagination.  The only saving grace I have, a belief that everything pulses through me and continues as a dream within my imagination. As the moon, which continues to burn, lives as the only mark on the map of my own consciousness that none of this exists outside of my own mind.  The pain which he delivered into my soul becomes the only salvation from the troubling thoughts taking me away from any solid ground beneath my feet.  As I look up at the many faces which closing my eyes, become one solid object I cannot discern; I know I can never rise above the weight that has been pressing me down for as long as I can remember.  I learn to look forward flowing through the only way I can look past that distorted form which continues to press on me from all sides.  I continued to learn how to walk again.  Forgetting about the pain shooting through me with each step and yet I continue on, still wrong in every pair of eyes fixed upon me but my own.  Through whispers and screams carried along throughout the cold chill winds directly through my ears, wrong, wrong, always wrong.  Wrong because I had trust.  Wrong because I knew how to love without conditions.  Wrong for the projection of weakness placed upon  me.  Wrong for thinking, wrong for holding up a mirror and saying look, please look, everyday, look beyond what exists in front of your eyes.  But no one could look.  They could only look at me for all of the wrong I have done to them.  But I looked up finally, through the shadows attempting to obstruct my view and I see a swirling vortex of energy form in front of me, every color imaginable directly flowing through my consciousness.  And the colors bleed onto the pavement, soaking into the cold sidewalk beneath the flowing, pulsing form, like tears flowing down from the fires of the moon.  Drowning in the tears from the color of his heart, his form vibrates at my feet as his large eyes open to my presence standing above him.  And he reaches for me and lets out a deep cry as his tears wash down my shoulders drying upon my back.  Why? Why would they do this he cries out.  Asking the question we can never know the answer to as I quiet him with the slow beating of my heart and he grips me tighter I grasp the only thing we can ever really know, that the injustice they do only brings us closer to each other  if we listen quietly enough


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