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Hell looks so lovely from afar. There is a glow over it, which draws me in, and only when I am too far in to get out do I realize that the glow is caused by the fire of passion turned into destruction, burning up everything in its path. I am halfway back to where I was, on the good path. It�s getting straighter but steeper. I turn around and look behind me. Before I can turn to walk up the hill again, the old sweet scent drifts towards me and I try to shake it off. Then I cannot help it. I look behind me and I miss where I came from. I can hear my own voice saying that it is bad for me, but hearts do not listen to the intellectual unfeeling voice of logic. Then I talk to myself again, thinking that if I said out loud that I wanted to do the right thing, that my heart would automatically agree with me. OK, so, if I just take one little step back, just to get a taste, then it will be OK. I can turn around and go back. I just want it once. So I walked a few steps back. I can see the marks that were left from other times when I went back �just to see it once more�. The steep hill impeding and slowing my progress before was accelerating my trip downwards now. It was difficult to keep my balance. I could begin to taste it now. The more I dreamed of it, the more seductive taste touched my lips, I wanted more of it. I began to slip. It hurt a little, but I took no notice of the pain. It was like a bad trip. I felt as if I were being sucked into a vacuum. I wanted it all back even though I wanted to catch myself and begin walking back up the hill. As I am immersed in my old habits I stop trying to climb back up. I look up with frantic eyes, searching for a foothold, but the tempting flames lick at my neck and kiss my fingertips and I finally turned around the rest of the way. I embrace the exhilarating chaotic desire that daily calls me back. My good intentions fade away in the enveloping heat. I run towards what I know has destroyed me. I know that it has. After I have run off the edges of my longing I will be burdened with the familiar guilt and shame, as I retreat into the quiet darkness of total isolation. It�s so hard. I look and see the bottled liquid flame, and I desire it. I want it enough so that just to touch makes my fingertips tingle. Every second, an arduous battle occurs in my mind, and I submit to the impassioned cries of anguish from my heart, telling me that I need this. I am sucked in. Everything swirls around me. I sink back to where I was. I can see clearly where I should go. But it looks straight up from where I am standing. I fall backwards, dizzy from the thought of climbing back. I fall into what welcomes me back to dizzying desiring chaos, the purposeless endless passion that has no end but to feel the rush of infatuation and being wanted. I can�t get on my feet. I take two steps and when I feel the fresh air, I do not heed its beckoning breeze. Something stirs in me, and for a fleeting second I consider leaving my temptation and breathing the fresh air. But what I breathe in now is air filled with longing and everything I have pined over for months. But do I want to get back on my feet? Do I? Yes and no. I don�t get up. As I fall deeper and deeper into the funnel that is Hell, I know that I could turn back and go on the path upwards. But as the heat blankets my face, and runs through my hair, I allowed the liquid flame to touch my lips. It is the death of me. It is poison. I want this, but not one shred of honorable feelings lives in my twisted heart. I can�t even think about it. I feel like the more I think of it, my heart is flooded with even more burning poison, until there is nothing left of my original intentions but a pile of ashes. Now how do I feel, now that I have let myself go? An aching in me, like every good thought is disappearing into a black hole inside me. It is physical pain. I close my eyes to rid myself of the sight of my own face, only to see visions of the night before, of myself losing the will to do good, trapped in the thick, blinding smoke. The touch of flames on my arm burn and tingle this morning, a new day. I feel the rush, but then it drops like a roller coaster to the dread that burdens me. And I remember what I need to say. I reach out in the smoke to grasp what I once held up as my intent. I found it and wrapped my fingers around it. As I vocalized these thoughts I felt a release from the flames and the desires in my muscles, and I felt cooler. I stood on my own two feet once again. But the fire curled around me, wrapped around me, trying to lead me in. I spoke softly but clearly. The more I spoke, the less I wanted to breathe in the hypnotizing smoke which wafted under my nose. The sweet scent it had became nauseating and it drove me away. I see that the liquid fire which I pined after leaves scars that never heal. But I do not really start to walk in the other direction until I am strong enough to blow out the spark which travels upwind and begins to burn my clothes |
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