Orators and their Prose

[Therin]

Disjoint

For what, after all, is given us, to drive our steps through this passage of time? What, indeed, but love? That single, divine union of souls for which anything and everything can and will be done. Without love, what is man, but a collection of logical processes? When logic fails, what is left? Nothing. Nothing, but love.

For me, nothing. Having stumbled, finally, out of the black corridors of violence and terror, I come now to the shattering realization. I am barren. Desolate. Left with only cold logic, and the colder winds of longing, like a blizzard in my mind. I am...missing...pieces of myself. The little things that would make me complete have been taken...and scattered to the winds like the ash of a dead man. The wide-eyed wonder at things only I can show you. The affectionate slap on the arm. The lilting laugh, and softer, more private chuckle. The...light, that softens the harsh shadows of my world. They say that for every person, there exists a match, like numbered pairs in a game of cards, not exactly the same, but not totally dissimilar. Just enough of each to be complimentary. This is my plea. For the sake of my sanity, my life, my...everything, please. I do not know how much more monochrome I can take. People die of loneliness, and I am never more alone than when surrounded by those whom I call my friends, but around whom I cannot trust myself. Save me or destroy me, anything that this might end. I am weary...oh so weary, so tired my bones ache and my mind becomes sluggish, of playing games with myself.

[Therin]

In Memory
I suppose I can't explain some of the things that just pop into my head. One thing to the next like a coin rolling down Broadway, or a strobe light on a dance. Many are dark, many outlandish. Some are terrifying, like the beast that rears its head in daylight. Balancing that, however, like green lights to red, are the few things. The softer things, like summer moss or a lover's touch. Even in a life as mine is, overshadowed and broken, there can be hope.

Hope, which shows itself in the most astonishing circumstances. The quiet tears of a changing world. A friend, who passes with nary a breath. A coin rolling down Broadway. Altered perception, like a hymn that changes key. The world is unchanged...and yet different. New corners are in light, while others, once light, are in shadow. Calm shadow, like the basement of the house you've lived in your entire life. These are the shadows of the past, which look as though they hide uncertainty, but in reality it's the same room as it always was. That is hope.

Hope, my friends, must never die. Like caffiene after a sleepless night, hope is the saving grace of a seemingly cruel world. Even when all hope seems lost, look to the world to provide it again, in newer form, different and yet similar. A four-leaf clover in a field of dandelions. A ray of sunlight on a cloudy day. A new vision, where once was emptiness.

A coin, rolling down Broadway.

[Therin]

Shellshock

Always ends up like this. Blow me if I know why.

Actually, that's a lie. I know why. No one. Ever. Understands. oh dear jesus. where's linkin park when you need them. crawling in my skin. wounds won't heal. wanna feel what isn't real. F**k you. Linkin Park can kiss my hairy white ass. Somehow, somewhere along the line, I screw up. Always. Never fails. I take risks, dance on a blade, and then, in a realm of philosophy where nuance of speech says more than the words themselves, I say "Watch for landmines" when I mean to say "Dogs sh*t in the house." All of a sudden, no one's willing to go near me without a metal detector. Well, you know what? I can't talk to someone while they're busy dicking knobs around on a handle and pressing headphones to their ears. For some strange reason, the point doesn't get across. I wonder why. And suddenly everyone's got chocolate between their toes and they're looking at me like "Why didn't you tell me?"

I don't carry bombs. I have no use for them. Bombs burn bridges, and no one's ever gonna cross the Mississippi with me dropping a holy hand grenade on anything that looks like half a McDonald's logo. People cross the ocean on flying bombs. But not on scud missiles.

I even know where the bridges are. Seriously. No joke. Don't believe me? Look, I'll show you. Oh, but you're not even gonna come see, are you? No, I might be wrong, so, you aren't even going to bother looking. God forbid you take a risk once in awhile. If you want the whole truth, you don't even need a f**king bridge. Swim the f**ker. Dive right in. Water's fine. Clothes'll be wet when you get out, current will carry you downstream, but, hell, you'll be across. Oh. Gee. Don't believe me there either. What a f**king shock. I'm not gonna build it for you, Private, and you can bet your nuts it ain't gonna built itself, you lazy sack of suck-up, so you'd better get to work. Oh. You like it here. Oh, well, wonderful, absolutely, stay here all you want. When you're all alone because everyone else has crossed this tadpole stream, I'll come back and see how far you've gotten. Damn straight you won't get hurt. But, oh wait, yeah, you'll starve too. And you'll die of dehydration before that. And even before you get that far, that rotten carcass that you shove down your own throat every day will destroy you from the inside out. You'll sh*t so hard your own intestines splash up and slap you in the face. Not a pretty sight, I promise.

Oh, but, goodness, no, don't believe me. I've walked each bank of every river from here to f**ing Egypt, and I've got sattelite imagery of the rest, but, hell no, I couldn't possibly be right. Oh wait, here's a better one. No one would ever just help you. It just doesn't happen. Nothing's free. We live in hell. Oh noes, fresh bread! But it must be moldy on the inside, right? Good news, you can cut it open and see. Go ahead! BUT NO, YOU'RE AFRAID IT MIGHT BE MOLDY!!! CAN'T CUT BREAD THAT MIGHT BE MOLDY, OH GOODNESS ME NO!!! WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL WOULD YOU BE!!!

What are you going to do when I run out of patience? Am I ever going to run out of patience? What would that make me? No one gets left behind, right? Right? Right!? But...I'm not Arnold Schwarzennegger. I don't have biceps the size of basketballs. I can't swim a river with a thrashing, shellshocked anchor hanging from my arms.

But I have to find a way. No one gets left behind. No one.

Right?