Torn pieces

I put my hand on one of his feet to perceive the grainy structure of his
skin. It's cold. It's hard. But most importantly, it's strong, so strong.

Looking up I can see his massive thighs lifting that collosal body in a
forward stance, as about to attack. His huge muscular right arm ready to
flung that axe forward, and his face so menacing that even I can't help
but feel uneasy. What marvels must this warrior not have achieved while
still animate?

I want his protection. I need it. Yes, he's my guardian. This massive god
who can destroy any threat in an instance, he will protect me. He
must protect me.

Still, I can't help but wondering. Once lightning surge through his cold
stone exterior as it is now told, and life explode inside his every vein of
frozen gray ore; he breaks free from his inanimate pose with a large
roar, will he really care about me? To him, I will be but a little mouse. An
annoying pest. To him, I will be everything he doesn't want anywhere
near his vincinity. I will remind him that not all living things are strong
and unyielding. I will remind him that creation is far from perfect and
that his ideals and beliefs as a fearsome warrior are not shared by the
one he's supposed to protect. It is likely, that he will chase me away in
disgust, as I would a mouse.

Of course, that in itself would be a blessing for me. If he manage to
place a good kick, I will for the first time in my meager existence fly,
unbound by the rules of gravity, free at last. And that short moment,
before my flesh in rapid acceleration pulls me back toward this blue
and green ball of my destruction; that short moment before facing my
inevitable doom, I will probably be at my happiest. Yes, this warrior god
is my god. My own personal and divine saviour.

Below his head from my perspective the clouds pass slowly and I can't
help but feeling like I'm travelling across uncharted land with this
upside-down warrior god. His axe pointing in the opposite direction of
our heading and his battle roar no doubt trying to intimidate our
pursuers. The large, blockshaped beasts with hundreds of squared eyes
glistering of evil. The large beasts that tower so low towards the
cloudy land. They almost seem to press against the blue and white
surface beneath us. Somehow my great warrior god is capable of
keeping his feet at the exact same level as those blocks of pure malice.
He is a truly magnificant protector. A marvelous warrior. We are
companions in life. We complement each other. Yes, those blocks of
menace will not?..

What's that? It's shiny, and pointy looking. It's heading straight for us
from the clouds below. I grab a hold of my warriors left big toe. I brace
myself. The object keeps coming closer. Growing in size. Almost as big
as my warrior. The world is so silent, it's deafening. What is that?
Is it the awakening? Will my god finally be awoken? Praise the object!
The time has come! I will be set free! Finally, I will

Originally posted by stocken
I put my hand on one of his feet to perceive the grainy structure of his
skin. It's cold. It's hard. But most importantly, it's strong, so strong.

Looking up I can see his massive thighs lifting that collosal body in a
forward stance, as about to attack. His huge muscular right arm ready to
flung that axe forward, and his face so menacing that even ...[text shortened]... woken? Praise the object!
The time has come! I will be set free! Finally, I will

Prescription or your local dealer?

A symphony of disorientation playing all around my scattered bones.
Dancing and laughing at my predicament, as if a great victory against a
most inhumane creature has been fought and won. My flesh is aching.
Colours ravaging my conscience. "The purpose of life is to end", I
suddenly remember. His sunglasses impossible to see through. His
black suite and white shirt. His most evil incarnation in the form of an
agent. "The purpose of life is to end".

Why is it that the most insightful and profound wisdom can always be
found in the most frightening of scenarios? Such a negative worldview,
and yet so undeniably valid. A boolean value of incomprehensibly
complex equations. That's the end sum. A true or a false. How much
information is lost in between? None? Perhaps. "The purpose of life is to
end", is such a negative value, yet true in relation to the world as it
stands today.

I can feel my hand. It's in a radioactive pit of torched material. It's
holding on to something. It's holding hard onto it as if losing the grip will
somehow make my situation worse than it already is. I can't remember
before, but I remember now and before is relative to this thought that I
currently possess. It has to be. There has to be continuity
between them. If not, then how come I know there even is a
before to now? But no matter how hard I think I can't seem to recollect
what has happened, why I am here. I only know this: "The purpose of
life is to bend".

And so I bend into a curve the fragments of intimate thoughts to seek
the sight not unlike the howls of the wintery wolves. I'm suddenly aware
of my vision and see nothing but blood. I move my eyes but my
perspective won't change. It's as if they are disconnected from my skull
and my muscles therefore won't respond. I then realise that what I'm
looking at is my own scattered brain and marvel at the persistence of my
insignificant life. I close my eyelids and see a slight movement in the
flesh besides my flattened brainmatter. How amusing. How fascinating.
Is this at all possible? Surely not.

Love require sacrifice. In this regard, love is as cruel and malicious a
feeling as hate ever were. You can hate without sacrifice, but
you cannot love until you've understood the meaning of true loss. Love
require sacrifice.

Is my sacrifice big enough? The fact that my foot is lying on top of my
head and my penis, curiously enough erected, now stems from the
radioactive brainmatter that used to be mine, must surely constitute a
large enough sacrifice? And it is true that as I lie here pondering these
questions I am experiencing a strong emotion, a feeling of nostalgia.
Not because the setting as such is in any way familiar to me, mind you,
but...

...for some reason I can smell freshly baked scones with melted butter
on them. How odd.

It doesn't matter though. Right now, that nostalgia tells me that I
love freshly baked scones with melted butter on. I love it with all
the power in my torched black right atrium. I need the taste of scone on
my burnt tongue, with a nice glass of milk to go with it. I need it so bad.
I need to swallow that cold milk and well-chewed bite of scone and feel it
travel all the way across that stone foot to my stomach.

If sacrifice is a requisite to love, need is no doubt the reason for that
requirement. You cannot love without sacrifice, and it's not a sacrifice
unless you need it. My love for one thing require me to sacrifice another.
Sometimes the very object of my devotion requires me to sacrifice my
own self.

Right now, if someone would be so kind as to place a scone on my dry
tongue and pour some milk over it, I would be grateful. I would consider
my current predicament, the loss of my physical self a sacrifice worthy of
my love for scones and milk.

Originally posted by stocken
I put my hand on one of his feet to perceive the grainy structure of his
skin. It's cold. It's hard. But most importantly, it's strong, so strong.

Looking up I can see his massive thighs lifting that collosal body in a
forward stance, as about to attack. His huge muscular right arm ready to
flung that axe forward, and his face so menacing that even ...[text shortened]... woken? Praise the object!
The time has come! I will be set free! Finally, I will

You spelled colossal wrong.

Here's a great story, too.

http://www.dimensionsmagazine.com/Weight_Room/stories/fat_foxes.html

What's a miracle? A miracle would be something that has evidently
happened, but can't be explained in scientific terms. At least I
think that's what a miracle is. It happened this way, and no
scientist in the world can explain how I can be lying here, looking at parts
of my own body (parts of the brain even) and still be longing for scones
and milk; still being aware of my situation. So, this is a miracle right?

The next question: what caused this miracle? Obviously, the reason for
me being scattered like this is that shiny object that fell from the skies
below, but how come my most vital organs (the brain and my eyes) are
still functioning properly? Is it really the brain that does the thinking? Is
it really my eyes that gives me sight?

Moreover, do I really need to understand this as a cause with a purpose?
Why can't it just be pure luck? Say I've lost control of my car and I'm
about to drive it off a cliff. Now, if the car has the proper direction I will
be saved by a tree that stands in the way. Just little over a meter to the
left and I will fly to a certain death. My brain will tell me in that moment
of truth to avoid hitting the tree because that would hurt. So, I try to
steer away from the tree, hoping to stop before I run over the cliff. Still,
my car hits the tree, I step out without a scratch and it's clear that if I
had managed to pass it at that speed I'd be a dead man by now. Is that
a miracle caused by a divine hand or a guardian angel? Or is it simply
pure luck that my front tiers didn't obey my desperate turning of the
steering wheel?

I think that's the basic question here. Am I still alive because of luck
(what a luck), or because some divine being wants me to continue living
like this. If the first is true I'd have to conclude that I'm not so lucky at
all. I can't move and I feel an excruciating pain in every part of my
being. If it's the latter I can only conclude that this divine entity is purely
sadistic.

There is of course also the possibility that the divine entity trying to save
me somehow failed in doing so, and I'm caught in this state: between
saved and damned.

In any case, how could the knowledge about the cause for my current
situation help me in any way?

No, I think I'd better lay this whole miracle thought to rest and try to
focus on something a little more worthwhile. Like trying to get up.

And there she's standing before me. Isn't it always like that? Every love
story ever written. Every cheap novel out there. Every romantic fantasy or
delusion. It always begin like this. You're lying there on the ground in a
thousand pieces, your mind scattered, your emotions in uproar and your
world in ruins, and there she is. I can see her through the faint reflection
of the broken glass on the ground, right before my motionless eye.
She's saying something. Can't tell what, but it must be pretty bad 'cause
she's also crying.

Her eyes are a shade of grey and her hair all burnt out. She must be
around her mid-thirties but it's hard to tell. Her facial features are all
covered in third degree burn marks.

She's not talking to me specifically. She's looking around her like the
end of the world has happened and she somehow survived to witness the
horror. She falls down on her, aouch, knees, obviously unaware that I
can still feel my rib area very well.

Lifting my... my... something that came from my inside in her hands and
holding it up like it's somehow special to her? I don't understand. What's
she doing? It hurts, though. That's for sure. It stings every time one of
her salty tears falls to thin out my blood. And it's a hurt I somehow like.
I want this woman. I want her like I've never wanted anyone.