In My Hands, Know Suffering

Can You Describe What Dying Is Like?

 CASTELLONE SIGNO - /kas-tē-lēˈō-nē/ /sin-yō/

They say that if a person was beheaded, there was less pain, or no pain at all. How gross was that? Moreover, how convenient was that? Wouldn't it actually be nice if you experienced less pain when you know you were already dying? No? Do tell. The dead don't speak experiences of death. What was it they say? Dead men tell no tales. It can only be portrayed with what the living knew.

But how exactly can one individual describe dying? Those who survived cancer? Those whose life almost got caught up between the lines? Those who thought they were considered dead, only to realize there was still a tad bit of breath drawing them to life? How fortunate.

It was always the rotten eggs, black sheep, and whatever they call those imbued with bad luck that often lived the longest. It would seem like the forces of Satan are stronger than that of God because those who deserve to be called saints die before they even know it. The sinners prevail even though they're faithful, but not really because we're all sinners before saints.

He was no different. Wherever he went, bad luck followed. Or the opposite. Either that or the world was just too predictable for him to live an honest life in it.

But if I said I'm anything but ordinary, now that's just bullshit.

He didn't want to be here in the first place. He wanted to blame his parents for giving birth to someone like him. He found his own life bland and meaningless. There was no point in him being there.

When he finally decided to face the world, that was the moment it turned its back on him. It was as if his good luck was taken away by the people he saw or interacted with whenever his mind swiveled with thoughts. Thoughts of unimaginable depravity. He didn't always think that way. It was only recently when he discovered a side of him that awakened.

It had been slumbering within him for quite a few years now. He thought it wasn't normal. But the longer it stood radiating from within, the more he thought that perhaps it was really meant to happen. On what it was, when it occurred, how it happened...he didn't know. He wasn't even certain of what was within him. It was like something tugging at him, deep and sleeping.

When he opened his eyes, a reality struck him of possibilities that awakened an entity. It was something obscure, unknown. It can either be a curse or a blessing. But he didn't believe in blessings. There were only poem of words undelivered by justice. Everything was a lie.

He had a few friends, but never had anybody he really cared about. Despite all the ups and downs of life, no one ever really knew the tale unless it was read until the end. Accounts of a single thought lingered further than the close-minded. People varied every step of the way. There wasn't anything to be thoughtful about either. Things just happen on their own, but his case called out differently.

They call him Llone. And with him, misfortune resided a painful melody.