Young Writers Society

This sea owns me, owes me. My wife and I have been here only once together. Anyways, I take a break from my busy life and come here. And I stand. And I wait. I wait for that familiar hum of pain. Pain that fills no empty void, but pain that is necessary to feel awake. I stand here and wait.

For numbing silence. Silence which is essential for consistency. Then I think of all the horrible things, realistically. Significant catastrophes. Tragic accidents. Traumatic incidents. Disasters. Miseries. Nightmares. Events and occurrences that could send the blood rushing in my veins. News that could set my hair on edge, my flesh pale. My mouth dry. But they must be good, tragically speaking. They. Must. Make. Me. Not. Bored. They must set the blood running again. Otherwise it was quite a waste breaking from my daily schedule for nothing. For nothing more than salt and air. Or black blue, useless waves.

The Eulogy

They lived in these houses. They breathed out of them with this air of invincibility. Since everyday they came home to a table laden from the harvests. The harvests of elites. Nothing was more carefully cut in such complex, competitive, evolutionary edges. 

But when they laughed over the irony of the others and those past, they gulped down their fears with liquids laden in crisp chemicals. So, was it their fear rising in their throats as they kissed each other good night or these naturally unnatural gems they’d washed down with the earth’s innocence? It is true that what is invincible is impermeable and will deny everything impure to it. 

But even as this ringing burned through their ears they let their heads hit the soft bed and shut their eyes to the growing night. It was only staring at the deep pits they’d dug before them that they finally whispered these acidic ways had claimed their end. When they kissed each other good night once more they pretended not to smell the sour, bitter air. They pretended that they weren’t thinking of the day the earth would wrap around themselves and the acid would finally pour endlessly from their mouths. Then they could sink in their impurity and natural state in the dirt; they could sink to inexistence in one piece and in peace. 

In eternal submission with the acid they had created from the base of the earth. The base which they had dug up from the depths of her core. They knew the core was not endless. Or invincible. 

But they were the invincible elite. 

They breathed on her, their motherland, digging their heels into her rightfully. Frustratingly. Frustrated to extremes. I believe they were angry their throne had not been made invincible like them. Although she was vast. Almost endless. A vastness their evolution had not reached. A greatness their mouths, hands and bodies refused to use for one another in purity, in limitlessness. In their bitterness, they made her the epitome of bitterness. From their rage, they scoured her unforgiving buried nature. And they ate it all up. All’s well that ends well. Says the mother pouring dirt over her cold child’s body. Because she is invincible.