When the Pawn

When the Pawn

Redemption. Salvation. Completion. A hollowed boy in hallowed halls. A childish conversion. A sweet, sweet inversion of an incomplete perversion. Back to riddles again.

Realization. Fixation. Creation. A reluctant hero in resentful fashion. A possible converse reaction. A darkness worth the satisfaction. Back to ends to begin.

Re-damnation. Frustration. Concentration. A past of self-incrimination. A purposeful deviation. A break in thought and in duration. Back to thoughts that will win.

The walls are crumbling now, into little pieces, falling all around me. The world is tumbling down, without reason, like a candle melting away, dripping wax which hardens in metal holders, reminiscent of dried blood. There is no peace, anymore; there is no truth, anymore; there is no beauty, anymore; that is not touched by war, and fiction, and ugliness. There is no fact, anymore. No right or wrong, anymore. No black to white, anymore. No fact to lies, anymore.

The puppets are dancing, like proper little children, miniature, miniscule, mimicking children. The pieces are moving, on the chess board of life, and we are but pawns, who can see nothing more than our little squares, ahead and backwards, one by one, occasionally two steps forward, sometimes turned to royalty. Little killers, little sacrifices. A sacrifice to life, a slow suicide, a self-death, a quiet betrayal. A series of conclusions, forgone and placid. An apathetic reaction. Mental war. A lack of conflict resolution.

Killer among us. A little golden boy with bright green eyes and black, black hair. A mistaken identity, a possible affinity, a psychotic turn of destiny. And I am who I say I am, and I am who I think to be, and I am who I know I am, and I am nothing that you see. Such a quiet, little boy, with a quiet, little look, and a quiet, little frown, missing what was you took. I think I never had a chance.

Seek acceptance. Find rumours. Seek love. Find expectations. Seek need. Find obsession. Seek refuge. Find danger. Seek and find. Seek nothing. Find nothing.

I think there's a certain composure to nothing. A certain possibility. A certain piece of mind. A certain way of living. A certain avoidance. A certain solitude. I think I'll never be left alone again. I think I'll always be alone. I think I'll never be quite trusted again. I think I'll be given their hopes. I think I can be a martyr and I can be a villain, but I cannot be a child and I cannot be a human. I think that with those sort of choices, I rather chose nothing. Or everything.

If I claim everything, what can they do to me? They can destroy me, they are destroying me already. They can distrust me, they doubt me already. They can dislike me, I dislike them already. They can disown me, I am not them already.

I feel detached in a tangible sort of way. Like the player in a play, who doesn't know his lines, or the plot, and who's suddenly been changed characters as the next act is about to begin. Things are no longer changing, they have changed. They have mutated like rabid plants, overfed and uncontrollable, they have become this legion of growth, twisting ivy and devil's snare, squeezing the life out of everything.

We have become a ghost world, with impossible possibilities and illogical actions and irrational reasons. Gaunt with death and fear and determination, grim reaper in velvet cloaks, the bringers of death, despair, destruction in the form of kind, well-meant words and careful suggestions and clueless allowances. Purveyors of darkness in the guise of light, like little black holes.

Black holes, sucking up everything, eating the darkness and the light, and the beauty and the ugliness, and the truth and the lies, and rights and the wrongs, and the goods and the bads, eating it all up like the last dinner of a man doomed to die, nothing to waste, nothing to want, but pointless, for in the end death comes to those who wait. The blackness reigns. The only way to survive a black hole is to disappear through it, but when you come out everything will be different, an alternate of your reality, a doppelgänger syndrome. There was an astronomy book in the second bedroom. Not that the book was mine, or the bedroom was mine, or the home was mine, but it was there. I scavenged it, like most the things in my life.

I wonder what could be different sometimes. If it would be worth it, letting Voldemort loose on the world, if that could have saved my parents. Sometimes, I think it would, more times than not recently. Sometimes, I'd be willing to do that, given the chance, no matter the consequences to others, to get what I want. Maybe the world's lucky I've never been given that choice. Maybe I want to be selfish. Maybe I want to be selfish, and childish, and spoiled, and lucky. Maybe I want to be certain, and detached, and quiet. Maybe I want to not care, not worry, not wonder too much. Maybe I need to do something. Maybe I need to be something, something different.

And I think I can be, something different. I think I'm thinking in circles, conclusion to question, query to answer, confusion to illusion, reason to decision. I think I have to make a decision. I think I've made it already. I think it doesn't matter that they'll be disappointed. I think it doesn't matter what they think of me. I know what is right and I know what is wrong, and I need to act in accordance. I need to be true to my own truth, because their truth is soft and blind, like a little new born kitten, and he will kill this kitten if they give him a chance. He will be the snake and gobble the kitten up like dinner, if they allow him too far in. So, I must stop him. After all, I'm suppose to be the hero, aren't I?