There was once a fly called Peter. He flew towards the light. Then he died.
There was once a fly called Emma. She flew towards the light. Then she died.
John was born, and the parents smiled at his rosy flesh. “Face so young, free of worries,” the father whispered, “you will learn more than I ever did and you will be freer than we ever could be.”
John went to school to be chained by duties and rules. He learned that grades are the gates to a better future. As such he listened to the doctrinal words of the teacher and the lies in the books. How can written facts be wrong? The rosy freshness has long gone.
John had a job, and he was chained to his desk. The monotone glimmer, the shimmer of electronics, in the corner of his eyes hidden behind the piles of work, towering on the right and left of his sight. The boss enters and smiles.
“Freedom lies in money and money is earned with hard work,” putting more documents on top of already older documents. “A new PC will arrive soon so that more work can be asked of you”, said the snake tongue. The skin has turned pale and grey and became not better after every passing day.
John lies now dead in his grave. Freedom he has finally reached. Peace he can at last embrace. No work, no laws, no worries when the dead rest their eyes and minds. A soft smile on the lips as his soul unchained travels to a better world.
A legend is told, that once there was a tall, old man. The landscape around deeply scared, ridges reaching down to hell, it was said. Black stoned ground, burned by a past war, it was believed. A cold blowing wind that whistles the screams of horrors of the past, it was whispered, and all of it moved and changed, turning the land into a deadly trap. The only thing that never changed was the old man on the bridge.
The crosses that had once ornate the flanks of the old construct have turned upside down or fallen like dead birds down into the depth below. The bridge once in a burning red had turned to black, green and finally white. Each change was a herald of an upcoming doom. The only thing that never changed was the old man.
In the storm, his black coat would flutter in the wind. Like whip the sound seemed to hit the moaning, spirits mourn that filled the air. The black stone would move and roll and crush all in their path. The only thing that never changed was the old man.
His eyes were the deepest blacks. Prisons for all that dared to approach the bridge. Deeper than the Darkness, which his darkened hood threw upon his face. Like two portals to the darkest place in existence, with a bright shining point of light at the very end. His staff he held in one hand, never changing like a symbol of perseverance. A rusty blade crosses above his head like a dark red magical half-moon. A box was hanging on his belt, hitting the rusted keys next to it. None of it ever changed. The only thing that never changed was the old man.
One day a girl had walked up to him, to the horror of the parents, who screamed in pain. None dared to stop the girl, and a black rose wooden bow was already prepared. The girl walked up to the old man, with a rose in hand. The old man had slowly lifted his head. The girl did not scream or run, she smiled, and the wind of souls stopped. The old man reached out his hand and took the rose, it withered in his hands and fell to dust.
The only thing that never changed was the old man.
Since then every day the girl walked up to the bridge and gave the old man the rose and every time the rose withered and died. As the girl grew into a woman, she continued on and brought one rose after the next to the old man on the bridge. To the surprise of many, the land around had changed. Roses grew and covered the black stone, the screams of the dead were replaced with the singing of birds. The only thing that never changed was the old man on the bridge.
One day the woman died in her bed of age. Throughout her life she had visited the old man on the bridge and when she died the bridge was empty. The thing that never changed had changed. The old man had walked to her house. Knocked on the heavy wooden door and like a ghost seemed to hover to her bed. Once again she had smiled and reached out her hand. The old man took the hand and as before, like the roses, she withered away and became dust. A single tear, it was said, had dropped from the dark portals and the one thing that never changed, had changed:
The old man since then was never seen again.
My mind is a dark whirlpool of emotions.
Penetrating the light, ripping it apart,
feeding on the weakness.
I am the blight,
Gave up the fight.
There is only eternal night,
After my mental fight
In a small corner of my broken mind.
All the sadness I bear.
I go crazy, maybe, my mind goes hazy, my self-control goes lazy
am I growing mad?
Mercy stood alone on the road.
She saw her friends, her family her loved ones die. Too far to fly in, too far to run and help. Her power drained, not ready for saving the ones she loves.
She stared down the road, down the tunnel, down the darkness of her emotions crushing in a thunderous storm.
She sat down, tears in the corner of her eyes as she could hear the screams in her headset. Too far, too weak, too late.
“Heroes never die” she muttered, but nothing happened. Her power was exhausted.
A warm hand suddenly rested on her shoulder:
“Don’t worry love; we will always be at your side.”
New vigour ran through her veins, as her team ran past her. A new fight, a new battle, new hope!
HEROES NEVER DIE
In a society that gives us all the tools to be happy, why is there so much unhappiness?
In a world where we have so much peace, why do we have so much war?
In a world where we have so much education, why do we have a youth scared of the future?
In a world where we have so much charity, why are still millions of people dying?
In a world where we have justice, why do we have so much injustice?
In world that seems to be so perfect, why i am so unhappy?