Meet me at the Gates

Meet me at the Gates

I fantasize a failed love, my partner has been so corrupted by my inattention and pain that their numbness has phased out my character as responsible for such atrocities. I stay with this woman, try to get her to see my eyes, she never looks back at them again. I am an abandoned religion. Her pupils have turned to a better world, one that does not have such complexities of love, and I am the conduit that has taken her there. I am too far away. She sees beyond me, and I am alone.

We are on a beach, and with the smallest voice she pleads me to leave her there to drown. Her body is limp, and as I try to move her I find she is tied to the place where feet meet the sand. She’s not there any longer, I am a cowering fool trying to save a hollow corpse. I beg her to get up. I beg her to look at me. Please look at me. I’ll do anything if you just look at me. She is happy now. Her face is stone, her eyes gliding on the horizon.

The tide slowly blankets her feet. Heavy with soaked robes it becomes harder to hold her. The tide is festive, it will have company soon. I am screaming. On my knees digging at the sand around her legs. She does not fight me in her apathy, apathy would be too courteous a term to describe someone that has passed that threshold. There is no longer context for emotions in her world, she sleeps with a premature god that has yet to tell us his name.

The water is to my neck, I am coughing back salt and fear, my hands are struggling to hold her slippery limbs. I leave her there to drown. I am now the cocoon I saw, the empty wind that left frigid paranoia as a staple for a disgusting feast. The woman is my mother. She smiles from the afterlife. Taunting me. In my dreams she is covered in furs, she is wealthy, and does not have time for me and my father. It is not the cancer that has taken her away from us, it is her avaris, coupled with the contrasting patheticness that me and my father have arrived at reluctantly. She fails to acknowledge my love for her, or maybe she just doesn’t care to humor me any longer. Let me just stay in this room with you for just a little bit longer. I won´t be a nuisance to you any more.

These dreams are tainted with sour pangs of guilt. Her love in the real world still echoes as loud as the depressing mysteries she left me to uncover. I know her well when I know myself, and when I abandon that she is my enemy.

Her mind was taken so much sooner before her body. The drugs, and the dirty cells gripping into her brain. I wonder when she knew that she was going to die.


I am Elan Amen Taro. I am an individual not bound to a title that works to confine me. I know in terms of modern medicine there are words that are adequate to define my symptoms, but I reject them as a stigmatic descriptions that removes me from the general population. People have left me, whispers behind my back have grown to choruses of speculation and criticism. I have hid this secret from my friends, my family, lovers, and mentors. Society has taught me that those with this affliction should be locked away, hidden from the eyes of the innocent. Culture has taught me that freaks with this disease will always fail, and that my best course of action is to try and suppress it as best I can.

I will die defending the belief that this is not true, I will shake your hand, and look into your eyes and smile, happiness, love and stability dripping from my mind, and have you destroy the pillars that the world has sparingly lent to us all. Eat my flesh, and realize that it is just that, I am not special, I am not a monster, I feel your tries for affection and will counter them with my own. I fight with imaginary swords against real demons, do not belittle this struggle with allowances of pity, take up arms and meet me at the gates.

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