The following article was published in N-SPHERE January 2010 issue.

Fresh smell of flooded street made me think there might be a chance for your redemption. Instead an image of ruins vast guarded by the spectrum of your failure is all there is and can ever be. You reminded me of the dying flowers you left behind, sick offerings as thin as air, worthless now that those times are long gone.

“Hideous words you say there. After all this time I’ve been dusting off your fingerprints from the bodies laying dormant at the bottom of your shrine of misplaced words and abused mentalities.” “Well, we both know there must be collateral damage of this mindless present. But for now, you can unveil your maniac splendor on the stage you see right here. I prepared a nice line–up of spectators for your entertaining purposes.” “Looks to me like some cosmic getaway, at the edge of your conscience. And I get to drive.”

He was telling me about this voice in his head, and all of the fears transpiring through his eyes. I looked, saddened by the voracity of the truth therein, endless trials beyond broken mirrors of self deceit. My mind wondered astray as he poured venomous words on me. “Let me show you the darkness inside; an uncomfortable presence I learned to accept, and sometimes even consciously use against me.” “I’ll have your soul now, take it to the drycleaners.”

Every now and then, I listen to the rumors in the flooded street. It still tries to entice me in believing you are eligible for redemption. But I know better.

by Bahak B

artwork by Vel Thora

Full article here.