(Warning: Morbid)
I see a faded old sign, on a dusty old street as I walk aimlessly to I know not where. The sign welcomes me to Bleak World. I know this place well. I once lived here. All the colours are off, the people are mere shapes and the national anthem is a skipping rhyme sung off key.
I walk the streets filled with houses fallen to disrepair, but people live there unnoticed and uncaring. They don't speak, and when they do they speak in a strange font that chills me to the bone with its aggressive friendliness. They speak only in promises and play little games in the dark. I move on.
Terrible things happened in Bleak World, but it was a long time ago. No one speaks of it, but it echoes off the walls like a memory that no one can forget. The ashes of every fire that ever burned littered the ground and burns the nostrils of anyone who stays close. And still, I move on.
It is always Autumn in Bleak World. The trees have let their leaves fall to the ground to rot and everything seems to be waiting to die. No birds are around save for the black birds that wait for the food to be ready. In many ways, these birds are the only friends I trust here.
The graveyard is large and mostly unkempt and the cemetery gate opens and closes to the wind who is the only visitor. It happily opens to me with the same squeak it gives the wind and slams behind me with the next gust. I am assaulted by the names of the past and I know them all so well. Some of the graves are nameless, but I know who lies there. There are not who I've come to see.
There I am. My grave stands tall, reminding me that I lived here once, in this cold dark world where nothing tasted good, where no colours but brown existed. And I read the epitaph with a triumphant nod. I took it from a poem that I hate, but it is a line that is most fitting.
“Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not here. I did not die.”
I don't look back as I slip through the cracked graveyard wall and walk away.
Goodbye, Bleak World.
(This is a little piece I'm working on, inspired by the Tim Burton Exhibition. Sometimes to get something out of your head, you need to write it down. It'll be interesting to see how it works out.
If you're wondering, I'm actually feeling pretty good today. Life is pretty perfect, except for the writing block. I'll talk to you guys soon.
Peace and blessings
Eric Rawlinson
20110318)
