- Monday, May 07, 2007

The Finale of Life

The scent of the flowers filled her nostrils, her nerves sending signals to her mind. When was the last time the beautiful smell rushed through her nose into her lungs? When was the last time she realized the wood had such an extravagant smell, now that it felt so close to her, so intimate with her? She couldn't remember.

Her right tender pale hand brushed against the wood. They felt so soft, so tender, yet so solid and rough. She couldn't make up her mind which was which, but she adored the touch of it. Her mind flashed through past scenes she had endured, but not a drop of nostalgia dripped into her watery-like mind. Never could she feel anything - remorse or love - about her past, because they meant nothing anymore to her. Though she used to hold them tight to her heart and not let them go, the memories had to go, sooner or later, and she knew that when it comes, she would give them up easily, and happily.

Brown and cleverly designed, the features of the dusty wood imprinted their looks upon her eyes and dashed into her mind without her consent. Even when she closed her eyes tight, the image of raw beautiful wood filled her mind. Reject not those images she will; they were too inviting. She adored the way the lines curved, the backgrounds and blendings of brown colors just like a flowing river heading somewhere unknown. She was eager to find out. She traced the routes with her eyes, her imaginations filling her mind, running wild like never before, and she was thrilled to see that happening within her mind. Until somewhere, she couldn't tell or measure, her eyes stopped following the route of the river-like twistings.

Perhaps how the twistings twirled about was how life told its story - with a voluminous unpredictable set of plots and settings that triggers the mind's curiosity. And to discover this untold chain was to hold a tarantula in one hand and a bison in another. Though desirable, it is dangerous. It scares and welcomes the searches like a predator inviting a prey. One sudden so wonderful, so friendly, another sudden indescribably scary.

She thought and thought and thought. Life is just like a drama filled with selfish people, those who would do anything just to gain personal desires, those who would harm and hurt just to gain attention, those who destroy and kill just to gain success - the cruelty of life, the brutality of drama. One second you fill like screaming, one second you fill like embracing. Which was which, which was true, which was false, nobody could tell, nobody could describe, nobody could utter.

All of a sudden the smell of roses filled her mind. The romance she once had. The love she once thought was but appeared to be otherwise. Images crystal clear flashed before her eyes, she couldn't gasp, she couldn't scream, she couldn't laugh. Dumbfounded and astonished, she wondered why these images - these past horrifying scenes - were still within her subconscious mind. Was it her or was it her imaginations?

If she were to stand and dance a slow song, her body movements couldn't do justice to the disgust she tasted like bile now. If she were to erect on a platform and sing a song, some tune she wasn't sure of, her melody wouldn't suffice the emotions she held so fragilely within her pale hands now. If she were to stand on a cliff and scream and scream and scream, the vibrations wouldn't even be able to cut through a short distance to terrify any petite animal.

Hence, all she could do was to lie down, just lay at a side and think through what life had brought her, where life had brought her to - an unknown she didn't understand: somewhere filled with bats screeching, leeches crawling about, cold breeze wind humming at her eardrum, wet dirty water brushing against her bare feet. It was pleasure, it was distaste. It was everything she could think of. It was nothing she wanted to dream of.

Controversifications - the art of making things controversial, she mastered it well. She knew how to manipulate emotions, especially, to either destroy her or shield her. It was like magic children read about in novels. They feel so enchanted, but she doesn't need to feel so because she felt cursed. So what if she could do many things yet gain nothing? So what if she could manipulate this and that but yet to have somebody she loved and loved her was impossible? So what if she could amaze crowds but none would congratulate her friendly and whisper to her ears melodiously, "You did well?" So what if? So what if?

Her left hand grabbed the raw rose tightly. Though the thorns jutted right into her palm, she felt no hurt, she felt no pain. Blood dripped from the wounds, not red, but black. They smelt, they sticked, they were just nothing but pungent stench. But she could barely smell now. Her nose weren't working anymore.

Rose, on earth, was the most beautiful flower of all. Women, especially, loved getting roses from their men. They adored the manner men cleverly dated them and presented bouquets of roses. So dearly, so wonderful, so magnificent, because roses are a symbol of everlasting love, an unrequited love so altruistic, so magnanimous. Yet think about it, could love really be so powerful, so everlasting? What if one dies, would love still remain? Can love be an unmovable mountain, so strong, so steady? Read the daily news and find how many cases there are about husbands cheating on their wives, and wives staining their marriage.

At the same moment, feel it you poor soul, that roses are also a symbolism of hatred, an emotion so venomous, so strong that could kill souls in an instant. The stare, the glare it has could shatter hearts made of paper and glasses, and in a more deepened level, could break hearts of stones and wood. Had anyone felt it? They had died. Of hurt. Of rejection. Of pain. Simply because this most powerful weapon eats the soul up, but gives extraordinary abilities and powers incomprehensivable to the human mind.

Her hand, stained with dark spoilt blood, removed itself from the beautiful rose and brushed against the wood beside. The way the blood swept across the wooden surface jumped out so vividly as if it were a sudden leaping lioness ready to engulf its prey. Ah, the pleasure, the love of past reminiscences spoke as the blood stained the wood. So potent were the words, so heart-breaking were the intonations.

But she didn't care anymore. She closed her eyes and sank into the deep sleep she awoke from. She loved, so much, the present she endured in. She adored, so much, the love she had for immortal hatred for love, unquenchable love for hatred.

There she laid, in her fresh raw coffin, and said goodbye to her life. Her past pains surfaced and evoporated into the atmosphere, her love romantic life vanishing instantly, just as if it never existed before. What affection, what joy, what peace - they would never meant a thing after you experience the adoration for death, because louder than words, they embrace you with love you can't possibly understand. What remorse you ever had, they will shatter and disappear away. That is the beauty of death!

Thus, the finale of life, so grand, pounded aggressively at the strings by violinist, cellist, and double bassist at the orchestra, and as it nears the end, the sounds of trumpets and horns magnifies the glory of death's arrival - so enchanting, so enthralling. For life, a toast! For death, a feast! That, is the wonderful glorious finale of life.

The finale of life.

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