HOPE: The bridge between the haven and hell.

 I see bridge.

I stand on one side.

In the shadows of crooked trees.

Meaning is fading on my side.

But the other side,

That is different.

It is full of flowers, shining with vibrant colours,

Naked people, with no fear, running around, their loose hair smells divinely; of apricots and banana.

They have happy smiles,

And they drink ambrosia’s nectar and eat its fruit.

It is almost not real;

Why are they there, when I am here?

Standing in rugged smelly clothes.

I am the deaf musician,

The blind painter,

And the retarded intellectual.

While they hear better than any humans; they know only one song though.

They see the sharpest, and they have the brightest colours of the world close at hand. But they don’t need painting. Everything around them is a pretty painting.

They are the most noble minded, but they don’t seek knowledge, for it is not the key to happiness.

When they were first there, they kept looking anxiously over the river, to the other bank.

"Is anyone coming?"

But now, even though their senses sharpened, they never look back.

They can’t see me, nor my misery, but I can see them.

I am the opposite of them and they are angels. But I am not a devil; I am not bad. But neither I am noble.

I fear the crooked trees.

Oh, the vile sounds!

Wolves are paying their prayers, for the dinner is on their figurative table.

It is me.

I want to run.

To run to the other side.

And the bridge is there, but;

It is not.

It is just a creation of my imagination; it truly is not.

They have stopped looking back,

But I never stopped looking towards them.

Their joy made me happy,

But that time is long gone.

So I will be devoured by the wolves again,

I will live again,

Another life of watching the other side of the river.

Maybe I will wake on the other side,

Maybe I earned it; is my debt paid?

Debt I never made, but it still is; the primal sin-

Most likely not.

I will stay here.

The birds will fly here to eat my flesh.

Only the eyes will remain,

Because the eyes can see.

They can see their joy and its contrast to mine misery.

Ears cannot hear the music, the one song they know, it’s too far.

So the ears will be eaten by the birds.

And I can do nothing.

And nothing else.

Or perhaps, I should jump into the river.

Oh, what am I thinking!

I know I could never swim over.

The stream is too strong, but it wouldn’t stop me; what would stop me is the metal ball attached to my feet.

The waterfall is near, just a while by the river.

The rocks beneath it are as sharp as bird’s tooth-

Piercing the flesh.

But one is different there.

One does not come back.

Something great could be there.

But nothing may be as grand as the isle of nectar, the isle I watch every day and night.

I aim high and I suffer.

But I am afraid of the unknown.

I am a brave coward.

But not a madman.

There is a chance, I wouldn’t come back from depths of hell that time.

Every time I was devoured by the wolves and my skin was pecked to death by birds,

I went trough hell and back here; or maybe this is only another phase of hell.

But if I went down the waterfall,

I maybe would fall to hell for eternity.

Maybe there is nothing else there, but hell.

But I can never lose one thing, for it is what I carry,

And it is what my debt is in, what I pay for.

It is not maybe a thing even, but it keeps me from failing.

It is a concept as simple as existence itself.

Hope.