Forced to hover between realms, I exist, as this tragic form of circumstance.
Neither completely alive nor dead, mortal nor spirit, I drift from place to place, in relative ambiguity. In these wanderings, I have found a sense of comfort, that is contained only in the most shadowy recesses, and bleakest alleyways, of the decaying, industrial landscape, in which I am forced to inhabit. From the corner of my eye, I catch glimpses, of fleeting, nocturnal apparitions. Still briskly patrolling the same stretch of block they did, when contained within their earthly shells of flesh and skin. I feel an unmeasurable degree of kinship with these poor creatures, as we are both essentially unaware of our own demise, and virtually ignorant of our displacement in the conscious world.
Once inside, I see a building's walls weep history. Like structural history texts, I am sensitive to their stories. The chipped, falling plaster, and brittle, wooden floors, contain the thoughts and emotions of generations long past. Their mumbled conversations still audible, and hovering on supernatural airwaves. Tales of lost love, and spilt blood. Serenity, and insanity. In the dingy basement of a neighbourhood bar, there is an ever present scent, of stale ale, and spilled cum. Wafting out from down below, it speaks volumes, to the drunken debauchery, that has transpired over the years. Beyond the prying eyes of staff, and the disapproving looks of bystanders. Although sanitized nightly, the aroma has become so ingrained in the tile and porcelain, it becomes as much a part of the bar, as the ghosts of its deceased patrons.
Every person has a voice. Every place, has a story to tell. Some reverberate as whispers. Some echo like screams.
[last edit 12/20/2004 6:03 AM by Brat Bondage - edited 1 times]
Modify Entry |
Ethics