Rage

I step. And I fall. I turn. And I miss. I sleep. And I wake. I wake. And I sleep. I dream and dreams become not reality. I walk forever and ever on and reach the highest and farthest peaks and gaze down upon a world so far below, so far away, forever distant and lost to time and distance too vast to dare return, and there beneath me stands a place that I should call a home and yet to me is nothing but memory. And memory unpleasant.

I descend. And I succumb. I crawl. And I fail. I lie. And I die. And I rest. I rest not because I want to but because I must. I must lie there and watch the stars pass me by. I must watch the wind take with it rain and snow and trees take with them birds and air, the force of earth grow through them, the weight of worlds within them. I must allow the hard and solid rock of the mountain upon which I lie to support me. That though it took away from me innocence, it is here that I have made my home.

And though my body grows too weak to stand and onwards down descend, my mind may drift and join the birds who fly so far above the world and watch the life of sorry men standing and sinking and trying to breathe in the air that they wasted on sorrowful words of hopes and dreams and desires and wishes and all that makes a man a man who walks between the mountains. The valley is that by which they come to pass. There is nothing to see at the top.

I am forgotten. I am become a tree. No longer am I living though I am alive. I am surrounded by my kind who came to such harsh a place. I breathe, and others breathe. I sigh, and the earth may sigh; it is my leaves that cover this world. My mark is the passage of time, my wisdom, the sights that I have seen that never can I again express from my restful watching and tireless waiting and sorrowful mourning of life that never was.

I grow. And to where? I see. And for what? I hear. And why? Could another reach me, would they take me away? Would they take me and treat me and turn me to paper that the purpose of my existence could be to become the holder of words that go unspoken to those to whom they matter most yet never shall be heard? Would that give me meaning? Would that give my lonely journey an end?

I know. And I forget. I see. And I blink. I speak. And I deafen. I begin. And I end. I am. And I am not. I am not the mountain. Nor the rock. I am life. Unliving. I am purpose. Unfulfilled. I am meaning. Unfound. I am all that shall never be for never shall I act. The reason why, never shall I know. I am anger. I am rage. I am passion. I am fire. I am spirit. I am soul. If my blood must be spilled, let me write with it a message.

I spoke and went unheard, I walked and went unseen, I reached and went untouched, I held and went unfelt. I screamed. And there was nothing in the end. Nor the beginning. There was never any thing but the hope for a something that if come not today then by tomorrow, but the sun is occupied in its journey, observing this tree that stands now on this mountain and writes upon itself, soul made paper, who steps and falls and turns and misses and sleeps and wakes and dreams of falsehoods and remembers tragedy and descends and succumbs and crawls and fails and lies and dies and rests and becomes forgotten and ceases to live and breathes and sighs and grows to the unknown and sees the uncertain and hears the unspoken and knows and forgets and watches and blinks and speaks and deafens and begins and ends and is… yet is not.

I close my eyes. I am tired. When next they open, again shall I be man.