He follows me from room to room. I lay down, and he is in the bedroom seconds later. I go into the kitchen, and he is there, right behind me. I walk outside, I watch t.v., I move…and he moves. Hell, if I even use the bathroom, I know he is out there, right outside the door, listening and waiting. As I type this, he is right behind me, glued to his computer as I am to mine. Ironically, he is ignorant enough of my desperate ways to find release that he does not read, or even notice, where I’m at in cyber land. In cyber land, I am safe from his prying eyes.
I know he’s scared. Hell, so am I, but I have to breath. I have to have a moment of my own to reflect. Besides, it’s not like I’ll do anything. I’ve already decided death by my own hand is not an option. My option lays with an accidental death, by the hand of another. It’s simple really. I love to jog/hike. The peace and solitude is a well sought after release for my weary soul and aching mind. The jogging and mountain trails abound in multitudes, and some, are not so savory. The gangs, the homeless, the destitute, the mentally ill, they all love the solitude of a secluded pathway.
Pricy running shoes. A nice shiny bracelet. A fancy techie device strapped to my arm and keys to my vehicle dangling visibly from a strap. Those unstable types won’t be able to resist trying to take what is beyond their grasp, and I will fight them. I will fight them…to the death.
I only need to find a way to escape his ever watchful eye.
3 comments
Very interesting post
“Embodiment of fear, the host of sin, god of the guilty and the lord of all illusions and deceptions, does the thought of death seem mighty. For it seems to hold all living things within its withered hand; all hopes and wishes in its blighting grasp; all goals perceived but in its sightless eyes. The frail, the helpless and the sick bow down before its image, thinking it alone is real, inevitable, worthy of their trust. For it alone will surely come.”
It is from this that salvation is promised.
“Unholy in defeat, he has become what death would have him be. His epitaph, which death itself has written, gives no name to him, for he has passed to dust. It says but this: “Here lies a witness God is dead.” And this it writes again and still again, while all the while its worshipers agree, and kneeling down with foreheads to the ground, they whisper fearfully that it is so. ”
Unfortunately, I do not believe in salvation. Ashes to Ashes. Dust to Dust. What’s done, is done. What’s gone…is gone.