Innamorta Essay, Research Paper Just a string of thoughts… Life. A sparkling myriad of light, a multi-faceted gem, an opal basking in the sun… the ever dancing shadows flicker off the walls as the inconstant light ever changes with the tides. As fickle as the woman that lies with fate and Lear’s witches, life is; and yet is not.
Innamorta Essay, Research Paper
Just a string of thoughts…
Life. A sparkling myriad of light, a multi-faceted gem, an opal basking in the sun… the ever dancing shadows flicker off the walls as the inconstant light ever changes with the tides. As fickle as the woman that lies with fate and Lear’s witches, life is; and yet is not. For the path traced by the pen is straight and crooked, upon those who step into the same rivers flow other and other waters, ergo, the way up and down are the same. So it is written, so shall be enacted, so it shall be.
And they say he killed himself, but I say not a chance… not a chance. Ever hold a man as he was breathing his last? Been to the last gasp saloon? Let me tell you that a sigh isn’t just a sigh. We inhale life and breathe out meaning. Even see him cry, the dying man? Crying for a world he never knew and lamenting in its passing? How quickly that youth was killed from his eyes on that day. He died a man, reconciled with his god, in my arms. I carry that boy with me now, that man is too heavy to carry so I wear it with pride. Slip into the skin and dance around in it for awhile. The nursery rhymes echo, the laughter of children in the playground, the rustling plastic chimes of Lego sifting on white cotton sheets, all in death. Amazing how grave men, near death, see with blinding sight. Funny how things go, isn’t it? Funny. The laughter is gone, the manic laughter that comes with not knowing how to handle a dying man in your arms. Almost insane, insensitive, innate, Innamorta, Iago’s insipid figs I tell you. Pulvis et umbra sumus, yet neither stand on their own. Nietzsche had it right. Let me tell you. Nothing’s been that same through it all. Nothing with a capital N, has been the same. Fear no more brave adventurer the heat of the sun, the winter’s gales; you, your worldly task have done, home is gone and has garnished thy wages in exchange for an undiscovered home that there is no return from that I, with capital or small beginnings i, will see again. Civil night and a phantoms’ burial. Like black on black or translucent white, that boy is dead.
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