Love help: What am I thinking as I walk down this desolate stretch of highway? - Help.com

What am I thinking as I walk down this desolate stretch of highway?

Well, you’d never imagine what kind of thoughts that one thinks after being murdered. I’m exhausted emotionally and physically, I was tortured, beaten down and buried in a shallow grave. Regardless of how deep the grave is, it is never easy to get unburied. My mind is tired and so I wonder how long it will be before my body is discovered, will anyone be able to identify me, will anyone miss me, and will my murderer kill again and get away with it? The fog in my mind is starting to lift, limited clarity takes hold and I become aware of the dirt caked on my skin, under my fingernails, in my nose and mouth, and by now, I’m sure, in my lungs.

Nothing bothers me as much as the dirt in the creases of my eyelids isn’t that peculiar? After all that I’ve been through I can’t stand the feeling of the dirt on my eyes, but I do nothing to remove the dirt, I can’t, I’m paralyzed. I lay here lifeless, unable to undo all that has been done to me. I think of all the times I should have defended myself and didn’t, all the times I tried to defend myself and failed, and here I am lost, victim to the darkness that is now my tomb. The coating of grime that has become my armor will not protect me, but allows those who may pass by to see that I have been through a battle, that I fought for my life and lost, yet I move forward. My progress is slower than any snail on its fastest journey, but I am aware that I am moving, and I will get there eventually. Where I am going I have no idea, I’ll just have to wait to see where I end up once I arrive.

I imagine what you might think if you could see me now, maybe disgust, repulsion, maybe fear or pity. That thought is gone, I have no idea what you think or will think, but I am sure that it wouldn’t be love. Not many people seem capable of love anymore, I take that back, most people seem to love themselves substantially, but love for others is rarer than a rainbow on a rainy day. Who would want to help someone who wasn’t able to help themselves? Why would anyone stop on this deserted path to offer assistance? It’s likely that they wouldn’t, no one would, they’d just keep going, some might stare as they pass by, some might avert their eyes, some might cast judgment, but few, if any would stop to ask what happened, and fewer still would have even considered my side of the story.

One thing in life is certain people believe what they want to believe, and rarely consider the truth. The truth is inconsequential when you are wrapped up in the juicy details of a story well told. I have known several great story tellers in my time, and I don’t mean the kind of story tellers who sit by the camp fire or sit in a rocking chair, I mean the kind of story teller who craftily spin their webs of lies and deceit. Those people tell a story to hide the truth, and often to hide their guilt, but it is rare to find one who does both with such cruelty that the effects of the story inflict pain for years afterward. A good storyteller makes sure the plot thickens, makes sure the tale never wanes. They are able to manipulate their audience so that no one cares about the truth. The details created by the master puppeteer will consume the audience so that they too feel obliged to repeat the story adding their own bits to make it worth the listen, and after a while that story takes hostages and keeps them for the remainder of their days.

Where am I? I leave my thoughts for a moment to consider my surroundings. It is dark. There is no horizon, no light at the end of any tunnel. There are no road signs, no maps, no directional indicators of any kind, just emptiness –void.

This open post was written 3 months, 1 week ago | V/U/S: 221, 21, 7 | Edit Post | Leave a reply | Report Post

Truth, Eye, murder, All That, Mind, Love, Story Teller, life, lie, Day (How Tags Affect Reciprocity)

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