An Ecstasy of Hour's Past

A Story by V.L.Mir

When victory tasted sour

Blue skies enthrall visions, as unknown figures pass by. Every day, he saw a variety of expressions; each represents a silhouette of a leaden history. These thoughts whiff his nose like a melodramatic maniac, looming over a chalice of white champagne, whose fundamental values remain forgotten along with his mother’s carcass. As he watches over the naivety of these men, he can’t afford but to remember the day when he renounced his faith of a sullen decree. The very faith that keeps him alive slowly suffocates the principle on which he believes his existence stands. For what is the purpose of living but to drive your life to the needs of your own flesh? An inevitable that wrapped him in silver linings, an action he knew he will gravely pay someday. Actions that he is willing to pay; for its fruits taste so deep and wholesome, even before his lips caress their glory.

He, of all people, knew what he did is never exemplary; yet, as he traverse the path of impeccable pretend, he cannot deny a proustite glimmer as deafening rage gradually fuses into his circulation. He is now cooked in his own confusion and has nowhere to run in the cauldron he himself created. Madness eloped his reasoning, taking him to a land of distorted pretentions and mischief. He now lost his way. Desperation is his guide yet it made things worse, for it not only attests the difficulty of the broken compendium but also concreted the forlorn of heart.

In his journey, he stumbled upon a central lake, whose murkiness denies sunlight to every life thriving beneath it. Then, like a promising marvel, a look of sympathy surge from the depths of his soul as he saw an evanescence of a good scenario. Upon the gaze of a watchful eye, his reflection suddenly radiates tenfold; a spectacle so bright, that even the man where this oblivion originates can no longer focus in his creation. A knight no longer equipped with metal covering, a gardener which no longer cultivates in barren grounds. For what humanity believes as benevolence is now his new found mystery and a neoteric language which spoke all his creeds. And as he massages his skin with fresh vulnerability, a crack in his world brought him back to reality.

There he was, once again, criticizing the streets of Moldova. A former grandeur of tenacity and verdict has now rotten into forgotten ruins of yore. He can no longer seek the days of a vibrant youth, for what’s left in the past are dead. History molded people and so is he, but the product of an unprecedented evolution did not impress him. It strains the time that flows rapidly in his system that the cravings of the distant past excites him. What follows thereafter is realization; realization so dark that he cannot compel himself to face his own irony. Like an erupting volcano, his mouth spews words of pumice and molten rock. Resistance is futile; he no longer control the body he once claimed as his own yet the actions of this troubled vessel will still be under his responsibility. The air that asphyxiated his adolescence becomes his ventilation. It corrupts what’s left of his mind, as he no longer knew what is right and what is forbidden. And as the day continues to unfold in the streets of Moldova, a caveat lays naked in the eastern buttress of the man’s room:

“Tranquility weakens humans. Convenience brought peril to my land. I can no longer overlook this life my ancestors gave me. The time has come. History should repeat itself. Blood will be my vendetta.”