Ivory.

Commitment is a fearful discipline. 

The rewarding rush of adrenaline is exhilarating at best, and lethal at worst. For some, this may be the ideal price to pay, for others a temptation they cannot ethically sustain.

Lung of pain, ankle of blood and face of grime, he remains the product of cocksure initiative. A man trapped in his own conviction stays chained to the lustful arms of despair. Ignoring the mind and willing the body to surrender is an impossible task for such a soul.

 

Some say Frank is one of the lucky ones, a man of true freedom. They couldn’t be more wrong—speaking such things to a child of patriotic pretension.

 

To the right, Frank's lantern burns unwillingly. Forcibly fed and full to the brim. The noisome smell of its stench permeates the humid oxygen; sweat forms on the stained glass. He slowly chips away at his deceived perception of reality as he lies in a direful puddle of sorrow. Bathing in a new light, he cannot help but recall those vague projections he once praised. “You’re one mighty fellow ‘eh? This right here is a lad who tackles fears head-first!”

 

Damn right, he thinks, who knew an ego could be so plump.

 

Fortitude is leisurely consumed, as the man of mortal savagery becomes a weeping infant. Frank peers into the darkness, listening to a silent muffled echo, the gentle whispers of lost hope. 400 hours pass and yet the inkling of deep regret continues thriving in the lifeless cave. Rock is deep into the ivory body of the infant’s bone when at last, the tenebrous aching in his malnourished lungs silently infests the inner mind. The beautiful leech of rot and muck chews off the grotesque layer of dead skin off his limbs. “Feed the inferior, the dependant ones,” they said.

 

Frank’s jagged conscience forces past its ruthless dilemma of will. “Put yourself in my shoes,” it said. “Your bulletproof vulnerability must go my friend.”

 

Shivering in the cold, I really am a madman, he thinks. 1000 hours later yet the chains continue tightening, forcing, and lurching the remainder of precious air out of his system. Frank in his weakened body, gradually forgets about the miserable torment feeding off his sickly wounds. He used to say, “Scars are a narcissistic reminder of the experience.” Now he assures, “Wounds may scar the body, but the experience turns into a lesson for the soul.”

 

The never-ending cycle of cruelty persists. Sleeping organs, dense ivory, and a soft sack of meat: characteristics of a dead man. The remainder of Frank stays silent.

 

He looks at the lustful fire beneath the remains of his wrinkled feet. Ivory stubs.

 

Down below the surface of eternity, he observes the life of a young man. “Such a pretentious prick,” Frank tells the thirteenth fallen angel, “What a horror to be around.”

 

A gentle hand is placed on the shoulder of his being. Standing alongside, the angel mumbles,

 

“Perhaps, we shall extend your stay?”

 

 18/1/23