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2001-12-05 12:16:35 (UTC)

Today is our Eve

This is the Eve of our new life or the end of our old.
Tomorrow fate will wind it's tentacles around our necks and
drag us about the web of life to our destined crossroads.

Which silken thread will we travel?

Will we find ourselves out in the street staring back at
our belongings strung across the yard to be gathered by

Will we find ourselves trapped here still, clinging even
longer to this tattered thread? Will we huddle more
closely and continue to bathe in each others tears as we
wait for another greedy soul to capture what is all we have
for themselves? Does fate promise another payment, larger
than the first? Does fate promise another cutback,
another sacrifice, another shame of us? Will we continue
on here, wedged between glossy threads in the hollow
darkness of the doorway to hell. Trapped between the
screeching noise of life's traffic and the deafening
silence of death's river? Will the quiet current of Styx,
finally break it's surface to swallow us up? Or will it
carry us ever quietly closer to the very pit that so
tenaciously beckons us to it's pouting mouth?

Or perhaps the arms of fate will cast us just a jaunt
away. Another
debt, but greater by chance? Will we find ourselves
enslaved within
another hollow wedged between new and shiny, yet all
threads of life's web? From this cell to this prison.
From this
hole to that cliff. From this torrent to that typhoon.

Metaphor. Oh Metaphor. What have you made of my life?
What have
you given me? Why must you keep my words hidden in
parables? Why
must you be so cruel?

Have I not given you my all? You and your friend simile?
Have I not
even shed my blood upon your blade? Have I not?

Be silent! I swear I will give you no more voice. As my
witness is
the silent realm, you will wither in my heart and my soul
will relish
at your pain. I will cast you mute. I will give voice to
reason and
logic. I will speak plainly without you constant
rambling. I will
face the world beyond the mask and you shall be the one to
behind the scar.

Hush fool. No one hears your whimpers. Yes, I. But I
turn a deaf
ear. You have dug this grave, you may lie in it with your
friend and
keep each other warm with your words. Leave me to my
thoughts now.

What is this? You shiver?

Why should you shiver? Such sweet words you utter about
have kept me
warm many a night. In fact, I even now miss the warmth of
your sweet
tongue setting my mind to spark of warm thoughts of
melancholy and
romance. Surely you can warm yourself. Why I've not
wasted a moment
in silly creation since I placed you there in the cold
earth of my
heart. I only peak in on you now to satisfy Curiosity.

Can you see from there how prolific I've become without
your constant
mumblings? Have you seen the sparkle on the cupboard? Do
you see
that the chubby pet has slimmed down and no longer pushes
me about
the bed in my slumber? Although I worry a vet may be in
her future
as for all her health she seems not to enjoy her running
anymore. I
suppose you would find reason for such.

Be that aside; have you noticed that I've wasted no time
needle to cloth or yarn? Wasted no thoughts to paper, no
time to
contemplation and fantasy is finally at rest. And your
blade lies
cold in a box beneath the bed.

Oh! Why must you shiver so? I don't understand. I can
feel your
warmth from here. My old friend, do not ask such of me,
I've not the
strength any longer. I've not the will to deny such, so
you mustn't


I know that I cannot survive the hollow without you. But
can you
call what we've accomplished here living?

Yes, at least we were warm. At least we had needle and
cloth, yarn
and canvas. And yes, the pet. We had the lovely chubby
pet to keep
us warm at night, if not for loss of blanket now and then.
I did not
know I was your warmth as you are mine.

Here, we will face the hollow together. The silken threads
damned. We will describe them for the daft, perhaps they
can avoid
the pit upon recognition of our words.

We will create and let the dust gather about the sills.
I'll give
you yarn and glitter, canvas and glue, needle and cloth,
pen and
paper; perhaps we'll find some wax and start a new. Of
course we'll grab your blade, don't be silly.

Whisper now, we mustn't wake depression. He'll rouse soon

Lavender Mace