My life had always been painted in sombre greys. In death, how it blossoms!
When the rains come, the watery drops fall like tears of ink: echoing and dancing across sparkling sapphire puddles. The sun, a golden mystic orb, shedding its beauty on all it touches.
I see rustic weather-beaten cragged faces of the old, set with eyes of faded blue. I behold bright smiles and blushes upon the fat cheeks of the young. My ears prickle with the twirling thousand-noted song of birds. The beauty of all these things I never observed in life, now bursts upon my ripened senses - in death.
In a trance I view this new-found paradise. Life, I have come to realise, is most beautiful to the spectator. The spectator has no need for understanding or judgement.
I look upon a derelict dilapidated street, filthy with squalor. I cast my eyes over the crumbling paintwork of rotting window frames, housing broken panes. Here and there sickly weeds break through mouldering masonry.
Oh what a picture, what a spectacle! What art!
Withered creatures scuttle furtively from one festering doorway to another, or limp painfully by with deep frowns creasing their ruined faces.
Do these not serve as fitting embellishments of the picturesque vision?
The scene still stirs my emotions, but now they are disconnected, as if stimulated by a fictitious tale. I see only a backdrop and actors, they exist only for my entertainment. These people have no significance and do not suffer, they only present that aspect so that I might take interest in this intricate scene.
The dead watch the living: detached, separated, segregated. The living prattle along giddily in their little bubble, or wearily toil. To them, I am just another face in the swirling crowd of humanity. To me, they are enchanting little fishes swimming in a beautiful aquarium.
I have been blessed with the capacity to appreciate withered beauties and fresh blooms alike. Recently I have become enamoured and allured by a wondrous thought. I dream of breaking this brittle-glassed world, to witness a new beauty.
As mocking reality was shattered and destruction crashed righteously through their fragile world, how gorgeous would it be? Just imagine all those pitiful fishes lying splintered, gasping - bedecked with shrapnel diamonds and rubies of crimson blood!
Yet I am not malicious. It is not their pain in which I will take pleasure. I have no capacity to relate, no sympathetic feeling. What spurs me onward is the anticipant joy, as of viewing a new painting - a new aesthetic delight!
Can this be understood? Can the living understand the dead? It is of no consequence. I write for myself, for my own enjoyment.
Yet that is not strictly true...if you are that most rare of specimens.
If your mind is surpassingly strong and beautifully magnificent, if your mind is resplendent with art and gorgeous with glory - then it is of great consequence!
She, sacred Angelic Death, shall come some soft starless night. She shall come serving deliverance from the shackles of a beating heart. Encased in a necromantic embrace, within her baptismal arms of gleaming ivory - you shall be honoured at last.
You, like I, shall awaken dead - dead among the living!