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Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Flash Story – “The Sight of Oblivion” – Apocalypse

July 24, 2019
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I stand above a pool of someone’s blood and attempt to notice the faces, in the attempt of my question, coming forth in trembling syllables, “Who had caused this destruction?”

A wasteland surrounds me in echoes of crying women. Of weeping men over the graves to their beloved, they too, sing out. They feel, as much as the women. And above this bloodied tide of many entrails and teeth, that has come from the many slaughtered, I see my own face. It is a face that has been swept over in emptiness. It is a face that is shown to be velvet in skin and fair in complexion; though, there is still question in the eyes.

The question repeats itself in still its trembling syllables, “Who had caused this destruction?” A world that shudders beneath panic and dread; a world that bleats the moans and cries of the wounded; a world that attempts to wield the threads of a savior. For I also ask, “Whose savior is this?”

It is a face of mine, revealed in this vermilion coating, at my feet. Though, there is also a form, dressed in a soldier’s uniform, and with arms that carry the gun. Carried as if cradled like an infant, this firearm is held close to myself; I seem to be in love with it. I have seen myself in this reflection; of my face, and of my form, and I ask the question again, “Who had caused this destruction?”

I have chosen to see within, to where one always originates in all their answers, soon to perhaps be muddied by a lacking clarity. I saw within to where other faces were seen, in memory of all of them; and beauty is instantly recognized for all its coloring. I have made a sculpture of flesh, and it melts as the candle of wax.

I see within to myself, and notice what creates all this dismay. It is for other faces, seen as well within this pool of blood, at my feet. I am, or have become, the soldier, the defender of myself, of all things perhaps external, using my gun to stab, and my bayonet to stab; and from this, I find answer, in myself. All faces seen in this blood, bleed tears from their eyes and add a clearness to the red.

After such clearness, there comes further answer. I see from all I’ve witnessed, that as a soldier, others are soldiers; as a man who bleeds, so do the women bleed. I am merely a contributor to the decimation. The destruction bleeds from me. The destruction bleeds onto me. For I say, “I am a soldier in grass drenched with blood. I am a soldier with a gun made from wood and metal. I am a soldier with a face so stern and vivid in its hardened shape. I am a soldier with and without emotions, barricaded by what I see, and what I neglect for myself. Sanity. That’s the ingredient to benefit the self. I recognize it. Bright. Clear. Never hazy. Never blurred. And I am, as well, the soldier whose reign of destruction is the same as all others of the same. I have looked within, saw my torture; I then looked outside, and saw blood.”

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