Revelations per Minute, Pt. I

The Skeleton Ideal

May 10, 2006, 3:50 P.M.

I am empty.

I started this fresh and innocent. I was full of good intent, full of life and love.

The events that have passed simple wiped me clean. I have lost all the good and bad I have ever done. I'm hollow. Empty. If I were a vase, I would have nigh more than knowledge of my own existence in the form of a droplet of water or a thin film of dust upon my inner regions.

I have been robbed of my innocence. I realize now that the day innocence dies is a sick and twisted day.

I realize what it means to be empty now, more than ever. I feel nothing. I taste nothing. But I see and I smell and I hear.

I can't stand the sight of my room. The sight of it sitting on the bed, its head in its bony hands, drying away tears from eyes that are no more than two very fine, very dark holes in its skull.

It looks at itself, and I look back at it. And as of this moment I realize I love it and have since the day we were born, body and soul.

I wonder what it would be like to be a skeleton.

Nobody will ever ask my name, or my occupation, birthday, gender, nobody will remember my face or my scent, nobody will care what I've done right or wrong because they'll be too fixated on the fact that I haven't got any flesh.

And there will be sorrow associated with the fact that I never kissed another person because I have no lips, but that'll be ok because I never really should have, let alone had to.

And I will live forever because knives and bullets and fists can only do so much to a person who cannot bleed.

I want to become invincible through weakness, king through humility.

I will never be starving, I will never feel full.

I will never feel pain, nor pleasure.

Will I be content without feeling?

The skeleton ideal.

The skeleton has faith in absolution. It believes in nothingness. It believes in everything.

The skeleton does not breathe, and perhaps is better off without the scent of flowers to entice it.

The skeleton has no head. It does not know the touch of a lover, nor the scar of a bullet.

The skeleton has no ears. It hears no birds singing, and no children screaming.

The skeleton has no eyes. It sees no red sunset, and it sees no red puddles.

The skeleton has no tongue, it tastes no love and no bitterness from loss of love.

But will it still know sorrow? Will it still know love?

And for once I see that a skeleton holds misfortune in its ever so tender brow. It feels lust for dreams erased, regrettance for penance not paid.

The skeleton is not apathetic. Apathy is a lie, because emotion is inevitable.

The skeleton ideal is a perfection of mediocracy, and mediocracy feels no greatness, nor failure.

Therein, the skeleton is an undoing of one's existance and is henceforth a lie, just as apathy is.

And where the skeleton is proof of death, it is also proof of life, in which it becomes its own undoing.

And in this, I show you, dearest friend, death and life are lie, just as the one thing that represents them, death is nothing to fear and life nothing to mourn.

I shall return to my pain happy, because I am living body and life, I have no skeleton just as I have no apathy, and henceforth I am ever more flexible to new ideas and new loves, new feelings and new emotions. I can bend and not break because I haven't a rigid bone in my body to hold my soul back, I can open my fresh eyes and see the sky, the sun and moon and earth and everything in between, I can peek into life and death itself as a single flowing entity.

Free yourself of your skeleton.