Hello everyone, I have been silent for days am too busy with school works. I just finished all of it this afternoon so now I may able to publish it here. But anyway, how are things with you all. Hopefully you are all doing good and healthy. Well, for tonight I will be sharing with you another story. Hope you enjoy this one.
His eyes were once likened to the blue waters of a calm sea - serene, deep, uncanny-as he drowned every soul that dared to meet his unlit eyes in his eternal abyss. He was the vessel of forgotten morals and foul ideologies coated with elegance and glory. Oh, how he adored fear. Disquieted cries, although it is quite a disturbance, it sounded surprisingly pleasant; the sight of petrified animals quietly whimpering while cowering beneath his superiority, it looked rather marvelous perhaps, after his long search for passion and joy, what he sought was lying dormant beneath his very feet all along- the infliction of fear upon sinners.
"Careful," he'd say - but one must know better than to believe that he has the capability to manifest even the slightest heed to any other living entity apart from himself. Nothing is more scarier than the polite smile of an emotionless man. His u foreseeable facade of sweet compassion keep hidden with the ever so intimidating state of non-lasting resentment. And he loathed, and loathed, and loathed; how his wrath befell those that desired power was very much the same to the way God blessed him with consciousness - his very own atonement, or so he'd say, as wisdom was never his very own prisoner, he who despised life wholeheartedly but found himself caged and shackled in his own. His God was truly a master in torment, and how he desired to stand firm on the same pedestal. How he ached for the bliss of ignorance.
He was a cursed wanderer- lost and alone in a nameless land, abandoned, without receiving love and pity, grief in every minute spent in that hellhole. He despaired, he wavered, but he lived; he chose to breathe until it dawned upon him that he had long forgotten his name. Surviving the life his God plagued him with was by far his greatest victory. It was as though he was standing above all else even those with golden plates surrounds themselves before his blinding majesty. It almost seemed like a glorious victory against God himself. It was power. For once, after what seemed like endless years of abuse, he was powerful. And from then, he never wanted to taste the bitter flavor of weakness ever again.
And so he turned against his God.
"the bearer of St. Peter's cross- This was a requiem- a hymn for his forsaken misery now buried the depth of the memories he'd rather forget: the vivid image of a wounded boy weeping before the face of his most awaited tragic death. A lifelong hunger that could never be satisfied was repeatedly chanted like a prayer all to utterly bury his horror into the deepest state of unconsciousness. He worshipped perfection and swore to leave no room for faults. He waged an inner war against his own demons and almost became victorious, had he never loathed the part of himself that embraced his flaws.
It was a battle that couldn't be won, but he was left with spoils anyway.
Companionship,solace, a place of his identity - home.
The grace of regret
Dripping crimson blood covered his pale skin like a graceful ornament on an unadorned sheet of satin. At the top of the mountain of lifeless bodies stood a poised figure-unrivaled and majestic-gazing upon what's beneath with eyes lacking of remorse. Although intriguing, the world wasn't worth a second of his unreserved attention. A repetitive cycle was all that it was; it thieved until there was nothing left to cherish. He had grown used to its tragic nature and never once did he spare one room for regret. There was no point in grieving, it was no more than a mere delay on what's inevitable- the retaliation of his wrath.
He disliked the annoying sensation of yearning for company, but he let it swallow him nonetheless. The idea of comradeship was merely a fragment of his own selfish desires. He sought comrades as he loathed loneliness, and that insatiable longing for a home was what betrayed him and those he considered his friends. It was fate- the world robbed them of life because they were his. Fate was never one to grant favors for free, and so he brought death upon their heads as payment. There was no else to blame. Not the twisted nature of the world, not the pride that stood taller than it needed to, not even their scarlet eyed murderer. He had no one else to blame apart from himself, but his heart did not welcome regret. He refused to acknowledge it. There was no time to worry over it. There was no point.
Regret was more powerful than he anticipated, however, it was rather potent; it was almost similar to a venom spreading rapidly, consuming him alive. Was it as powerful as his mortal enemy's hatred? Ah, he didn't live long enough to find out.
Maybe, just maybe, if he forsakes his heart's desire, then perhaps the world will spare them the consequences.
Despair in solitude.
It was such a very tiring and exhausting week for me. Our classes had started and I just finished all my tasks just this afternoon, so I wasn't able to post in here. Tomorrow is a weekend hopefully I can post another one. Thank you very much folks for taking time reading my works. Love you all and may you will have a great weekend.I can now start reading your articles.