I dare not speak to them, for I know not the things they might say. Behold thy mighty powers for it is but guilt that shall remain when all goes down. It won't end well, my dear self. It won't end well at all. The letter R is the catalyze of thought. It drops by whenever you seek comfort, love, advice, and answers; along with them it drops by. Revenge is what they whispered when all you sought was consolation, and from there on you seek it like a sore thumb avenging itself by torturing the mind. They whispered the word 'rebellion' when your parents dropped you as a child, when their curfew was just too early, when the allowance you got was plain cheap; that is the point in time when they started whispering, commanding you to rebel against all that's out there. Set free your anger, only then will you find your true self. Ramp and rage on whoever stepped on your toe when you were a child, every single bully, every single boss or client... every single human being. Define yourself, for nobody will... and once that happens, that's when you find their flag buried deep inside, that's when you become their home and their domain, their pink stuffed bunny and their killing machine. Those two angels sitting on your comfy shoulders, wishing you the best, praying for your triumph; they've always been your friends, recording your every move, telling you what to do. You're nailed to the wall, your eyes are poked out, and your brain's scattered all over the wall, that same wall you've nailed yourself to when you weren't looking. You become their property to claim. That's when they start yelling and commanding you to behave the way you do, the way we do. Their sweet sounding voices become intolerable and all you can do is do what they say, hoping that once you fulfill their wishes, they're gone... but they always stay. They're still here, listening to the tapping sound on the keyboard I write this with, ordering me to stop. It eventually becomes a norm. You're just a toy to them, listening to them speak out their minds and give you advice, advice that you always tend to find appealing and convincing. You never wonder why you have been listening all along until you find yourself falling down from a grace that never existed except in your wettest dreams, and the more you listen, the harder is the fall; the fall that you don't see coming until you start tasting your own brain fluids. That's when you realize that it was never about your religion, never about your country banner. It is always, always about you, your own very much number one, our Mr. Johnson. You come first before all. It is because you matter more than all else that you listen to them, accept them, believe them and believe in them. That's when you loose sight of their wings and harps and blinding white cloaks, when they become invisible, when they've become engulfed inside your mind and heart, when they become you... when they become gods.

I'll cover my ears and try hard not to listen, but I know I'll still follow... for they will always be there, sitting on my shoulder, waiting for me to lean, to bend over... waiting for me to give in. I only wish I could kick them away, yell at them, order them to leave, but I can't. I dare not speak to them, for I know not the things they might say.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи on Friday, July 28, 2006 at 7/28/2006 12:25:00 PM | Permalink