The Other Side

In such darkness, let there be peace and nobility; none the same without peace, is life.


Drenched it is in such purity that all men must die with honour and embrace the darkness. The dark, indisputably, has a larger domain than the lights; inside a violent mind and within the heart of a lover, darkness prevails. Where the sun doesn’t find ground to rest, darkness celebrates.


And I lay in eternal peace and linger to greet the forever due morning and the ever so cherished sun. I command the nights, awaiting the rise of brothers of me.


How imprudent was I, how irrational of them, to believe that there is salvation after death; to believe that heaven calls for the pure and hell waits in agony for the stained? Bear such immense pain, you foolish creature, to swallow the fact that none of your preachers meant business when they shepherded you upon the path that accompanies the afterlife.


Bear a heart, you must, that allows you to sympathise with what horrors one discovers upon his only encounter with the beautiful little thing called death. I lie, in my grave and the wise old in the graves next to me whisper stories. I believe them and it’s not a choice.


I can vaguely recall when they began the sick tradition of mourning over my corpse, and as conscious dripped out of me, one drop after the other, they bathed me, dressed me up, prayed for me and then buried me alongside the many such hopeless.


There is no heaven, neither hell, oh living fools. There is restlessness with a hope that won’t bow, fear that abides by no laws, and chains that shan’t loosen up on your neck. The cage, that is your cold, frozen blood and your weak bones, binds you to the earthly vessel you once gave purpose to. Death leads you inside the one-time path to the cage, and like nerds in a basket, we willingly rush to see the end of the tunnel. In cages, we spend eternities, with nary a worry and all the time to think about the beautiful women that could’ve been.


The escape is a feat rarely cherished; one that none shall speak of. The maggots crawl inside your skin and swallow your cold tissues, but dare you breathe? Time waits for none, except the dead. It pauses and refuses to tick along.


I wonder if someone might comprehend that beneath the graves, old and new, life dances in its ugliest prom dress. I wonder if someone will call me by my name, again. I wonder if I will matter, again.


They whisper, sometimes, about sick and tired men who dig out corpses for desperate rituals or to empathise with them or to eat them. The dead too have wishes, though. I wish a young, beautiful woman digs me up and I can look at her smile whilst she feasts of whatever remains of my rotten flesh. A sick form of hope, we dead share, and it is beautiful in a special way.


I hear them whisper about freedom sometimes; it seems like a misguided dream. But what choice does a corpse have; a dream is all we got. Prophecies suggest that a day shall come when the prayers of the dead will drive the moon so insane that it will swallow the sun as whole and with darkness, the dead shall rise. When such a day comes, and it will, the living shall take the beds left vacant by the dead who would walk the face of the earth instead of dreaming, in search for peace and sun. And the dead will walk the earth until the sun radiates yellow again and breaks free of the grasp. It will be ages before the morning of that day forgets to drop by, but I have to wait. I can only hope to leave my bed once and see my beautiful wife who is buried next to me. She is lazy and doesn’t want to leave her bed again. My mother waits for me too; she hasn’t had a cup of tea for years now. My brother lives though in the realm of the mortals and I hope he dies before the revolution sparks.


A neat little world we have erected here, with homes and hope and ecstasy, in our world of the immaterial. We dream, we sleep, and we whisper but only of the things which would inherit freedom.


I pray for the moon to break the shackles upon us soon, for I have waited a life and more. It is upon them to bear the shackles of a coffin. I don’t wish to be caged anymore.


I dare to claim false hope in the name of freedom. Hope is a dangerous thing, they say. None shall know, only a dead man knows what hope inflicts upon a man. I wish to preach them and in process, satiate my sense of righteousness


I am dead, but not for long.


Rise brothers, our day has yet to come.


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