Grave clothes.

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“I am concerned for you.” She said it in an honest way, which shook her silent curls. Her brown eyes bore a warm calmness to the much chaotic-ness in my heart. Yes. It was now three days of wearing those ugly brown vintage velour pants he had given me, my once a knight in shining armor, and an old high school rugby shirt. Had it really been three days? I felt like I had been dead for three days, the clothes seemed to resemble a certain burial within themselves, grave clothes, indeed. I honestly didn’t know how to respond to her. I felt my mouth move, but what was said, I have no remembrance. I was captivated by the gray sackcloth that covered my naked body and the ashes over my eyes. “Agony”, I probably whispered in a broken cracked voice. I remember pushing my head against the headrest. To face this day, while the pathways in which I knew we would grossly cross, were inevitable. We thought we ruled this place and this place was our domain. But the security of the comrades was now divorced and half lay wrecked and bloody; a victim of war, the war of love departed. It became a war for the uncontrolled. It was the war I fought so hard to win; only to realize there was no winning to this war. Now to pick up my books and binders, to learn as though nothing pertaining to absolute rejection was my daily bread, I entered the school’s hallways as zombie. I was indeed a dead man walking. I was indeed walking in death, reaching for a hope whitewashed against the struggles of a crimson gray, immersing me whole.

Image Credit:Antique Shed door found in http://maritimegardener.blogspot.ca/

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