Conspiring Against a Gravestone

Conspiring Against a Gravestone

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sun, Jan 5, 2014
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Fiction
Horror
I suppose that death is not an easy subject. It’s not subtle and it’s most certainly not kind. If anything, it’s the equivalent of having your least favourite song playing on full blast all around you on a loop. You can feel every note in your body, changing the pace of your heart and making your joints dry, it becomes hard to breathe and you can’t even think properly anymore because every little bit of you is saying “make it stop”. But it doesn’t. If it did, it wouldn’t be death- it would be a scratch or a simple lack of inspiration. Death doesn’t really stop anything, not even life. The world carries on, a hint of beauty somehow always prevailing above the time that leaves us all in the ground. Death means nothing. I know that now.
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I made a promise, a commitment, a vow, and an oath that I'd never fall into the brutality they call love ever again, as it is something not to be toyed with. Think of it this way: Love is like a scented candle. The candle stick and the waxed aroma make the candle itself. Then it's ignited by a great inferno, and together, they make a beautiful thing. It burns for a long time, but then it loses that flame, that spark that ignited the creature. I guess the two most important ingredients gave up on each other. "Love" can be a metaphor, a simile, but most of all, a promise. A promise that can't be kept, something that waits until infinity to be broken. At least that's what I, Roseabella Swayed, once believed.

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