The Wrath of Hades

by Chua Han Au

It’s a mystery how sad and suicidal music are ever so intriguing, evoking pangs of woe and melancholy that are perversely gratifying. Its slow and paced melody resonates strongly in the heart, heartstrings dance and the heart palpitates rhythmically (mayhap that’s the rhythm your heart uncommonly makes when a certain sort of incomprehensible blue seeps in). As our eyes begin to see, the grotesque sight of reality becomes ever so lucid, making her poignant stench awfully overpowering, intoxicating and in many ways, virulent.

We’re given limbs, only to be treated like marionettes, given eyelids to blink, a mere portryal of being alive. We’re given a heart, to contain and bottle the vice and malice thoughts that are not prohibited by forces to expound and articulate. Remember, “Nothing can truly be answered, even if so, it breeds more doubt.”

In an idealistic world, Aristotle’s theory of happiness is perhaps pertinent, yet written to feed us mere mortals with dusts of hope and streaks of inspiration. The more I contemplate about my aspirations and goals, the more I feel divided — stripped off bare and vulnerable. We seek validation more than ever before, seeking to be lauded by forces that are competent enough to elevate us and bring us to this platform of grandeur. We articulate even when thoughts are nothing but sheer hot air, donning a seeming concrete coat of intelligence. (I am sorry for the burden ye have to carry) Everything is either blown out of proportion or ridiculously glorified in shared contrived smiles.

The inherent desire to dominate is not worth the talk but dire. The stench has become acidic, turning gardens into deserts, backed by the sun’s sweltering rays, they rip the ground open, releasing the wrath of hades. We land ourselves in an extremely hapless situation where helplessness is our pillory. We can only resort to broadcasting them on the media, write about them in newspapers, hoping to engender some sort of reform. (But are we?)

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
that vile thoughts are ubiquitous

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
that lusty thoughts are pointless craftsmanship

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
how inherently bereft of compassion
they are

Soon, the wrath turns murky, covering the faces and inadvertently, morphing our most pristine and innocent selves into carriers of vice. The hypocrisy of creatures is simply revolting. It’s as though we’ve gotten intoxicated by the poignant stench of reality. Filling our stomachs not with food but with a bag of conceit air. We engage in small, contrived talks as though our lives depended on it. We’re not reliant on bread and butter, but on mere intangible things that are not even quantifiable; circling our lives around frivolous things and seeking admiration. We don’t realise the very fact that we are living, only when we rest on the gurney do we come to realise the fallacies that have been committed. We can write pages about them, sing a multitude of songs or cry a bucket of tears. But pathetically enough — and quite truthfully — we are nothing but creatures thrown into an abyss where we acquire nothing but mere phoney traits.

alas

Gale, blow away the melancholy and sadness.
Cloudburst, wash the calamities with your pristine water.
Fill the noise with hypocrisy no longer but with naturalistic echoes.

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