The Peacock's Lament

PROLOGUE (PART 1):

(Perspective of "Haz"):

Everyone has somewhere to go. Somewhere to be. They're always, rushing, rushing, rushing. But if they slow down, if they just take in the sights around them for one second, they'll be able to see. To know. To finally understand that-

There's no need to rush. No need to furiously pound they're feet into the ground; To gouge the ground, the very Earth, with their determination and self-driven desire. Because their rushing? The running around? The desperate effort put into they're very breath, pushed in and out greedily through their lungs? It's all...

Worthless.

We try and try and try. We make our marks, scratching our blood and bone and flesh, against the world, hoping that it will care, and carve out a place within itself for us, to shield us from the coldness of the sea called existence. But our bloodstained marks are like motes of dust; our sharp bones little scratchy tufts of white fur. And our flesh? Merely the dried, disgusting wings of an irritating insect. The world does not care. The world tolerates, it does not love. We are merely beings made to run in circles like hamsters; the little gears to move the second hands by, tick-tock, tick-tock.

The world is a beautiful place; a scenic paradise of life to look, see, and interact. But beneath the beauty, is an existence that last beyond us, that will take us into its bones, and stifle the hate-filled and endless cries of our weary, resentment-filled souls. It is the most beautiful and wild of mother's; Forever taking care of us so that we may live, but uncaring of whether we might die or continue to survive.

I used to love this world.

Then I began to hate it down to its very core.

Now? I'm just bored by it. Bored by its resistance to changing at all. Bored by the people running around, striving to achieve something that will slip through their fingers like sand, in the end. Bored by the same old sceneries that will not change no matter how one tries to break it apart.

Bored, by this sense of uselessness, of doing the same thing over, and over again, seeing no new result or change worth a flicker of interest.

I wonder, though, sometimes. I wonder if whatever being created existence, if whatever indescribable, undefinable existence, which made every little picturesque facet of the world, was bored of it too. Was bored of the struggles and the furious, misplaced passion exuded by just living. Breathing. Existing. And as I thought about it, as I wondered about this existential behemoth I've never met, I wondered if they, out of a sense of empathetic boredom (if they felt boredom), would grant my wish. My wish, to truly experience change. To feel constant change, constant excitement down to my bones, to the point I was drowning in it. To the point that I was breathing it. I wonder if they would grant my wish… And bring me to a place where I could live, could experience, that, "change".

I'm walking, always, always, walking. Why run when there is no need? Why struggle, when there is no point? No reward? Therefore... I walk. Always. I see the people run by me, rushing, pushing, almost flying. Some try to drag me along, some try to push me from behind, some try to give a purpose, a change, so I too, might rush. But it never lasts.

All my friends have long left me behind. All those who I've loved, both strong and powerful; sturdy and encompassing like mountains, or soft and loving; caring and compassionate like summer winds… they've all found someone they deem worthier of love. Those who should love me without flaw, my family, have long put aside the person they couldn't, wouldn't, understand.

It's lonely sometimes, being left behind.

If... Just if... God, or whatever being up there grants me my wish... I hope that, above all else, that I won't be always alone, that I too will be loved, and in turn, find someone worthy of my love. Maybe that's just a dream; All of this, in fact, is probably just a dream. But if it were to become true, if at this time, and this place, a higher being were to listen and grant my request, my wish... then this is what I want, what I so desperately long for, within my fading, stagnant heart.

PROLOGUE (PART 2):

(Perspective of "Haz"):

A storm as it rages; It has a beauty that is both benign and vicious; A beauty that is only ever more beautiful, when gazing at it with one's own eyes.

The flicker of lightning bolts, leaving glaring, fading, lines across your retina's; the unending roar of thunder, like a constant beat of undeniable sound, pounded unto the earth by heaven's will. And the falling waves of water, glistening like newly shed tears, briefly caress the expanse of your face; the points of your cheeks; the breadth of your forehead; the symmetrical curtains of your eyelashes; the orb of your nose; and the soft, glistening reflection of your lips.

But the most beautiful part of the storm is the cold. The cold that burrows deep inside, and seems to cling to your bones. A cold that seems to freeze your blood into ice, and slowly slows your heart, beat by beat. And just as you seem to sink into the apathetic trance brought by the cold-

Lightning crackles, thunder growls, and the rain-

It strikes your face; a ferocious barrage of slaps driven by the howling winds, no longer the sweet caress of a crying mother, but the ferocious anger of a warrior drowning in his sorrows.

The storm bestows chaos and destruction to those beneath the sky, like the ancient gods who crushed the helpless mortals with earth, and drowned them with sea and lightning for slights against their immortal pride.

But like the deadly fire gifted by the Titan, Prometheus, it too, is a gift to those in need of it's savage, and primal, might. It sparks long slumbering hearts from their listless slumber; it awakens the dead nerves in our hands and face, so that you may desire to touch, and to be touched, once again. It reverberates into your bones, and makes your feet begin to twitch, so that you long to dance and express the chaotic emotions, now echoing in your chest.

Only in the storm, can one truly feel alive.

I, who was alone, who people had left behind one after another, who's heart had become a mere piece of flesh…

Just for a minute, or maybe even just for a second.

When the storm hits, I feel-

Alive.

My blood sings and hums, and I think-

Is this how it is, to feel desired?

Is this how it is, to feel wanted?

Is this how it is, to be…

Loved?

PROLOGUE (PART 3):

(Perspective of "Haz"):

People don't really try to know me.

To be fair, I really don't try to get to know them either.

People don't really care about me either.

I can't blame them; I've never really dared to fully expose my heart; I only show it in small pieces.

I'm a mass of contradictions; I'm a living mess of puzzle pieces that will never quite fit.

And in all honesty? I really don't want to either.

I'm not a rebel; I like to be quite by-the-book.

Yet I take what I want regardless of what stands in my way; I have never taken "no", as an acceptable answer.

I am not kind, honest, or merciful.

Yet I am not wrathful, arrogant, or unnecessarily cruel.

I am, merely-

Me.

Nothing more,

And nothing less.

And now that, you think you know me,

Or at least, have an idea of what type of man you're reading about,

Let me tell you the story-

Of my story,

Of a young man lost in one world,

And is accidentally reborn in another,

Who braves the perils of a world,

Full of demons in human shape.

Who,

Fights,

Lives,

Laughs,

Cries,

And eventually,

Falls in love.

This is my story,

The story of a forgotten,

And lonely,

Dreamer of an old,

Broken world.

Who wanted to rise up,

And eventually did,

In order to strive eagerly,

To survive, desperately,

And reach the highest peak,

Of,

My new world.

For too long,

Had I been forced to stand on the sidelines.

Letting others dictate the world,

And slowly being eaten alive by it,

And their decisions.

Now,

It's my turn to set the board,

To make all the other's,

Dance,

Beneath my strings.

It's finally time,

For all those who ignored me,

Who put me out of sight and mind,

Who never tried to understand,

Or to pay heed to my desperate pleas,

To crumble

Break,

And to shatter.

Into tiny,

Tiny,

Pieces.

To be consumed by the darkest and most vile despair,

As they listen,

For the sound,

Of my bitter mourning song.

Beware,

My resentful prayer's.

Beware,

My vengeful laments.

Beware,

My wrathful requiem.

Cry,

For the one who sings,

The Mayura's Song.