The Art of Thought - Slave

    It was something irrational, like the fear of enclosed spaces or insects.  Confusion was heavy, hot, sticky air that smothered me in all too hot of an embrace, and seared my heart and soul with a kiss.  Fear, came for me too.  She is sister to confusion.

    I cannot understand - who am I?  Why am I?

    I thought I knew what I wanted.  I wanted Christmas, and yet, I refused to believe in it.  Perhaps I still do want a holiday, but what is it that I am afraid of?

    When I think of what could be, if I could just take the time, I cannot breathe.  Confusion's hug and Fear's caress take me to the edge and back, and to the edge again.  I am seeking and finding and shunning what I've sought.  What is it in me that keeps me from taking what I want, what I claim to want, what I claim to need.  Why is it that I feel despair and not joy?  Is it the season?

    All I can see is a void, bereft of everything but myself.  It is a void that is no void, and yet, still void.  I am afraid that what I have been shown is my own future, old and alone, perhaps famous,  with all kinds of wealthy and notable people around me.  I am afraid the void is myself, alone and nameless in a crowd of named power and other nameless faces.  

    It is my fault, though.  I push, and I push, and I battle.  I want to be needed and wanted, and yet, I disdain being needed and wanted.  Is this a product of my Gemini?  Are the twins fighting one another for dominion in this wasteland of dead and dying emotion?  Am I just a slave to forces that I cannot control?  Is it that, in fighting them, the slave will ultimately destroy himself?

    Who am I?

    Sick.
    
    The Triune One is unstable, Ryan, Ark and Sahm; three personalities that form one man, the wistful dreamer, the Beast, and the quiet one.  Why am I this way?

    Why are tears trying to escape from behind my eyes?

    Why can't I breathe?  Why is my heart pounding?  Why do I hurt like this?

    I know the answers, but I thought that I had escaped.  

    Because of one pinprick in the fabric of history, a hole has been torn through the garment that is my heart; the cold seeps through, and I am freezing.  My tears are desperate tears, frozen behind the face, trying so hard to escape.  But they will not come...

    I dreamed last night.  The dream was of a heart that I once had.  This heart had wings and the voice of angels keening in the triumphant undulation, "Praise be to Thee, O Lord, for we have witnessed your Love first hand, in a man's fashion."  Alas, the keening has long since stopped.

    No longer are the eyes lifted to Heaven, nor are the hands seeking to touch the sky where that heart flew away, alone.

    I hate dreams.

    Give me freedom, even if it is death.

    Slave.