You push the path best travelled, life inserts a dagger in your back for the trouble, push further into that blessed path with honest intention and alas the cursed realisation takes basic form, with the painfully familiar sensation of a second dagger finding its way into your flesh. The fateful completion of a complete knife set (worthy of any professional kitchen) signals the unenviable realisation, you’re cursed… screwed, royally… life hath twisted the proverbial blade with relished glee.
It is the heavy decision made within the tick and tock of this pivotal moment that defines a man, a definition cutting to the very core of a person’s nature, a reveal of grandiose eventuality concealed within the layers of mortal flesh.
The stubborn fool: Some keep strict to the path in righteous manner, heads high and pain thresholds higher as the blindly pure obsession to win forces every laboured step. Though for some lucky few a victorious conclusion awaits, for the broken remains of good men that dejectedly litter the gutters there is no such thing as happiness’s reward.
The desperate fool: Whereas the righteous and strong push on through the pain, nobility in every strained breath their lungs can gasp at, the desperate beg on dirtied knees as their vision lies permanently up, up towards those that for happiness cause the shameless will give their very selves for a momentary glimpse. There is only so much time you have pity for the man who seeks what he will never have, diminishing pity only mirrored by the dying of the fools own realistic sense.
The knowing dead: When the will to care takes a blissfully swift step into the abyss so goes with it the pain, regret and anything else with which life can cause cursed breath, where the stubborn heroically push forth, the desperate beg, calmly forward go the knowing dead. The ground may be torture with every burning step as the kitchen wear gathers in alarming number in your back, but the withered part of that mortal soul that had an overwhelming instinct to care is all but dead.
These defining sub-human creatures hold little but a pithy sense of hope I will admit, but been one of the knowing dead I must confess that the instinct to care, which is all but dead, holds little regard for the illuminating happiness that drives the knife collection deeper into desensitised flesh.
As for identifying the better of fates in the damned line up I have darkly drawn with every fevered touch of my keyboard, therein lies the trick… for to identify with any of the above is a sentence that without pleasure I have cast, and regrettable I cannot lift.
But even the damned will have their day, in this life or the next…