The Cliff

 

The one moment when you feel absolutely nothing. When nothing really matters anymore. You just zone out and everybody disappears. You're not dead, but you are tasting a peek. This is just when you are about to jump off a cliff, but the beauty of the scenery saved you.

What's past is prologue. Read fast, this won’t last. I hear voices. No, I hear noises. Perhaps, it’s the traffic. I find it less fantastic. I go with the rhymes. Dear night dreamer, I have lost to my poems. I brought wisdom to your tragic melancholy. You, with your framing cloak, have twisted the plots, have made up the chapters, and have written a novel I would describe as a good music taste but linked to a deaf man anyway.

The past is nearly a cliff. Everybody wants to jump. Who does escape, escapes both the past and the clef he was meant to listen to. I see an instinct of a living man who tries to paint the world with the black of his dull sick vision, to show that his darkness is more lightened up than others. I see the actors, the theatre, and the common interests. Humans…not new.

The Wizard of Oz is a misleading wizard. His wisdom is cruel. His shrink-actions are judgemental. His words seem vague, but they obviously speak.

I find no difference between Prospero who once gave a chance to his close-friendly enemies and his past self when he was able to execute them. This is not a warning. Welcome to the past. Welcome to the cliff.