The Little Red Book
I do not know why I wrote this originally. It was a work back from 2008, when I was occupied in all manner of small creative projects. Found hidden inside a folder, somewhere in my archives. The writing is a bit grim, but at the same time… I like it. Hope you do as well!
Two short pseudo-poems.
The Little Red Book
Eternal Spectator
Life, is a gift. The chance to see the world with your own eyes, to feel it, taste it, hear it. All wish to live, for once dead, all this ceases. The world as you knew it, gone. The people you knew, gone. What you become after death, is a spirit, the gentle blow of the wind. You become the thing people know exist, they can feel, but never see. They can see how spirits change the world around us, for good or ill.
Those of old age, have a desire to become these spirits. As our bodies grow weak, as out breath comes ever harder, as our sight and our senses fail more often, we slowly reach a consent with death. They know what will happen, and they are prepared for it. The greatest tragedy, is when those who are not yet ready that are taken away from us. Death comes in many forms, many causes. Yet what celestial or abyssal beings have the right to decide when does one leave this earth to pass onto the next world? Why cannot a man decide when his time is coming? Why must we abide to these unwritten rules?
In the days when only a handful knew magic, life was as fickle as a candle flame. Now, people live longer more glorious lives. The simple reason for this, people must be ready to move on. Out of all who have lived or perhaps live on, only a handful managed to leave their mark in the world. A physical, ever present beacon of their greatness, cruelty, dominance, genius. Yet even the most dedicated, sooner or later pass on to be forgotten. An empire built upon the ruins of an older one, will know only the surface of its ancestors, never to discover what was deeper down. The people who lived there, the people who married, who fought for duty and honour, who ruled justly or with an iron fist. We see the cover, but before we can look under it, everything turns into ashes, and with the gentle breeze disappears forever.
Thus, my question. What is wrong with wanting to be an eternal spectator? To gaze how the world unfolds, how people rise to power, and fall, to see how love sprouts in the darkest places, where hope and desire never cease to be. Why must we be confined to gaze upon the world over such a short period, to later become spirits who can never understand the world fully again. I refuse. I refuse to take this destiny, and instead forge my own. In the darkest halls, of the darkest crypts, in the darkest caverns, I gaze upon my crystal ball, and watch the world rise and fall. Time will not move me, for time serves only me. Age will not reach me, for I do not age. Neither thirst nor hunger will ever grip me, for I have no need for them.
To those who ask, why not change the world into something you want. To influence the events, to grant either Good or Evil victory. The Answer is, I am no longer on your stage. I gaze upon you, actors. I am the applauding, the scowling, the disgruntled noises. I nod my head to the genius of the writers, the greatness of the composers, the tyranny of the directors, the acting of the actors. But I do not want to change anything, I cannot, ever more. Once you leave the stage, you can never come back. Once you forget how to act, how can you join the troupe?
The Song
The world, is a composition, so complex and fine tuned you cannot imagine it. It is not played by a single instrument, for there is no single one that could accomplish that. It is an orchestra, the greatest you’ve ever seen. You can hear them all the time, all around you, wherever you are. Sometimes loud and deafening, sometimes gentle and touching. Such a diversity that no man could offer, yet something had to give the first note.
What do I fear, that many others fear as well? It is the silence, the abrupt halting of the song. When you stand in a dark room, gazing behind you, the fabric brushing against your skin and nothing more. You call out, and not even the echo graces you with a response. You hear your shoes tap against the floor, the beating of your heart. You become the solo instrument of the orchestra, but you are inexperienced. You feel the gaze of the spectators, and fear that your performance will not suffice. You mind is racing, your breath is waning, sweat runs down your cheeks. The Frantic feeling of fleeing hurls you into the bottomless pit of your darkest thoughts and emotions.
Do not lose sight of the song, for if you do, you can find yourself in a world so terrifying that your heart will freeze. Just like the the note in the distant past that started this concerto, you would be the finale, the steady legato of single notes. Your shadow rests on the floor, as your heart like a piano at its final notes.
Then silence… and nothing more.
Credits:
Writing: WriterX (Myself)