October 1, 2010
Is it always silence before the dawn?
It is for me.
Some sort of screaming rage, but silent for all of its sordid ferocity.
Some sort of pathetic whimper, but silent all the same.
What is silence? The pernicious frost that infects all of your little conversations?
Is it only silence if no one is listening?
It is for me.

Up till last year, you could see their corpses in the meadows. You could go from the remnants of the tollbooths on the highway straight down to the meadows. They were already in the late stages of decomposition, broken humerus bones pointing every which way, like broken spears in the aftermath of an ancient battle. I would walk around them, until the diseased and speckled grass retreated to form winding paths around every corpse. And that’s where I found my secret. Contained within ten yards, under a curious Oak tree, grass had already long ago surrendered to my feet and knees. But I was considerate. I would walk among them all, the four meadows divided by bramble and thicket. In the winter, the poisonous snow would suffer the same fate as the grass. I visited each one, talking, making sure no one was left out. And on summer evenings, after my daily rounds, I would gaze back upon this scene of carnage. Everyone was now at peace, no longer suffering, no longer able to gaze upon the fruit of their labors. As the toxic rain would fall, drenching me and liquefying my clothes, I marveled at how it no longer hurt. Physical pain was a dull throb, something that my abnormal calluses and sores could withstand. But it can’t compare to the emotional pain within. As the sicknesses come and ebb, I don’t sigh with relief. Death is a spouse that refuses to visit. With every sickness, I feel Death’s kiss upon my cheek, not fully providing me with the liberation I so desire. And even the meadows and fields have now escaped. The small pink backpacks, the clothes, the military hardware that has fused to the ground, all are gone now. The bleached white bones, my companions, among them. And now I feel what it is like to be truly alone.

I remember the harrowing dangers of that day.
Everyone had exited the cars when the EMP bombs had arced through the sky. Since then, the only electric things working were the military cars along the highway and the soldier’s gleaming visors. People were sinuously gathering in front of the lines of soldiers, pushing, all wanting to get to safety, the perceived safety just behind the soldiers and their guns. Most by then, had given up. My family included. My father unpacked the lunch we had brought, while I wandered of towards the line of soldiers on the highway. Everywhere there was the taste of fear, the stink as it flowed from everyone’s pores. The United Nations was losing the war. First to go had been the British Isles, with the fury of nuclear warheads. Then Northern Africa, the Virgin and Midway Islands, Mexico, Japan, and Israel. All shattered. The gears of a terrible machine, a beast of war was demolishing the pinnacles of prosperity and justice formed over the millennia by man. This combined with the inherent qualities of mankind itself. Division was assured, the quarrels at first petty. But we are too proud to let someone tarnish our ruined emotions. We let the fruit of our labors fly, the manifestation of our collective evil settling on the planet. I remember the planes flying overhead, their terrible children dropping from their open wombs. And watched as we were torn apart. And I torn from them. Those stars. Racing towards me. Eternally shattering my skies.

It’s late autumn now. The deformed trunks of the trees greedily gather frost as cold sets in. My secret is gone. We are gone. From us. Sometimes, matters are not there to be understood. But we’re not worried. We wont be divided very soon.

Before me, the aquiline petals of the rose you left me is held loosely in my fingers. I gaze inside, perhaps pondering on the many memories we’ve created. None real. None false. What many falsities we create to make one real. You’re not here. Then, neither am I.

It is beautiful this winter. The gray snow is falling thickly enough that the incinerated city cannot be seen. The cratered farmlands look healed and tranquil as carpets of pernicious snow blanket them. And I am changed because of the snow, each denatured crystal blanketing and healing my festering sores. Nuclear autumn has it’s own beauty. I’m lying down, letting my sores be alleviated by the snow. But the earth has no answer for the festering sore inside of me, screaming at the iniquity of it all. Close my eyes, let the poison flow from my body. Eternal slumber for those left behind.

I can finally sleep now.

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