.Psyche.
The media always plays cute on the whole "meeting cute" cliche. The most ridiculous, fantastical concept ever invented, and yet, it sells.
If dead sparrows are cute, then you've got one whopping best-seller right here.
My first encounter with him lay in my little six-year-old palms. It didn't make sense, how such a feathery little thing could be so cold.
I saw him when no one else could. That day, I saw the sparrow's life burst forth to Death.
He was like the sparrow. A fallen angel. Beauty devoid of warmth. A demonic, angelic complexion, pale and pure like moonlight, framed by wisps of obsidian curls. But it was the eyes that I haunted me for the rest of my life. A frosted moodstone, changing from an indifferent gray to a shock of astonished blue.
Like the sparrow. Running into the same glass window.
Again.
And again.
And again.
.Death.
Immortality is eternity.
Immortally chained to the title of Hell's Champion. The Phantom Knight. The Grim Reaper.
Don't they all sound so glorious? "Champion", "Knight", or my favorite: "Reaper." As if I needed to harvest souls to survive through winter.
Immortally thankless. You'd think a simple "Thank you, Death, for guiding Susie to the Afterlife" would be sufficient. No, I'm always the bad guy with a horde of bats you have to kill in video games.
But it's all a lie. Try to be hero in this life, and you'll fail. Because I will never die.
I am the stranger who brushes past you downtown, the one who catches your eye for a split second before merging back into the collective mob of wandering busybodies. You don't expect to see me ever again. But you will.
I can see the clock ticking within each of your chests. I can see the number of heartbeats whirring, unfaltering, down to zero.
I have watched Psyche every day of her life. From the six-year-old girl with the sparrow in her palms, to the young woman in search of Eros. Everyone knows the myth of Eros and Psyche. I laugh, because they don't know the rest of the story. Love comes and goes, like waves drawing to and from the shoreline. The Heart and the Soul may have their mortal love affairs.
But the Soul is wedded to Death for eternity.
Immortally chained to the title of Hell's Champion. The Phantom Knight. The Grim Reaper.
Don't they all sound so glorious? "Champion", "Knight", or my favorite: "Reaper." As if I needed to harvest souls to survive through winter.
Immortally thankless. You'd think a simple "Thank you, Death, for guiding Susie to the Afterlife" would be sufficient. No, I'm always the bad guy with a horde of bats you have to kill in video games.
But it's all a lie. Try to be hero in this life, and you'll fail. Because I will never die.
I am the stranger who brushes past you downtown, the one who catches your eye for a split second before merging back into the collective mob of wandering busybodies. You don't expect to see me ever again. But you will.
I can see the clock ticking within each of your chests. I can see the number of heartbeats whirring, unfaltering, down to zero.
I have watched Psyche every day of her life. From the six-year-old girl with the sparrow in her palms, to the young woman in search of Eros. Everyone knows the myth of Eros and Psyche. I laugh, because they don't know the rest of the story. Love comes and goes, like waves drawing to and from the shoreline. The Heart and the Soul may have their mortal love affairs.
But the Soul is wedded to Death for eternity.
1 comment:
that. is an awesome shirt.
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