The cup is raised. One voice is unmistakable above the dim of misshapen sound. Raise your heavenly goblets to the heavens. The toast is being made once again. I discern myself as the sovereign, I hold the golden chalice, yet, I sense no awe, I glimpse no idolization and no homage. Their devotion is not to me, but only to the luminaries in the sky above our tormented sanities. I hear voices telling stories older than the shadows that encircle our souls, they speak of wisdom and loyalty.
The tides of the sea of centuries will sail me away one more time before the fated end succeeds. A coin flips, my fortune spins in the wheel of fortune once more and rests everlastingly in somebody else's hands. What emerges when we slowly fall into darkness, with our sleep veiled by our very own demons?
YOU ARE READING
eighteen ninety-one
Historical Fiction"eighteen ninety-one" is the real declaration of anguish, a cry for a time not lived, a desire to escape the real world. ~ As the tale begins, there's a young lady who is at one of the many opium dens of th...
