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Want is a wicked, wasteful state without thought

Want is a wicked, wasteful state without thought - a strangely distorted face with eyes shut against a black and white background
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Want is a wicked, wasteful state without thought

Want is a wicked, wasteful state without thought, but greater than this is the feeling of death. Death that comes out of the furnace of doubt, that never ending, psychotic babbling of the undeserving as they strive ever lower down the evolutionary path, forgetting just how many layers of lesser-than-they human beings they have leant upon to reach the lofty heighs to which they aspired, but now, having breathed in the rarified air, choked on it, suffocated in its sterile vapours they realise that such was not what they desired after all.

Where in they came, and out they went stands a doorway into the torpid waters of their soul.

For if there is nothing in the ether which they can call a heart, nothing in the ether that they can call love, what have they left to call their own?
Naught that’s what.

The great presupposition – that wealth and fame can heal the injuries of the soul the paucities of the flesh and the vices of the wicked was a miracuolous coo for the mad and the injurous.
God, such infractions the like of which we hoped to never see again were perpetrated against the innocent at such a rate that they forgot they were innocent and became the blamed.

What did they want? They wanted. Just that. They wanted. They wanted to be someone else. And a want is a wicked, wasteful state without thought.

What did they give? Nothing that mattered.
They ought to have given of themselves, their love, their passion, their fears, their delights, for in giving they would have opened the door to receiving, and the unfettered joy that such bountiful givers recieve would have been theirs for the talking.

But they swallowed the snake oil and choked off their souls.
Unforgiven they died, unforgiven by those that they despised for their greatness, envied for their virtue and demoralised through their vigoruous denail of the facts.

Pah!
Don’t give me that, they always had a choice!
We always had a choice.
We have a choice.
Poor houses and work houses and whore houses and houses of kings house the same souls as each other.
Souls, so seem they.
Seemingly anyway.

© Cathie Tufnail

Published inDarkProseStories

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