metalanguage (no sound)

nothing is innocent. nothing is fucking innocent. it came to me with the rustling of the leaves outside, blown by the wind. it is a cold wind, cold like no one you've felt before. for a moment i understood. for a moment it was clear. but then it was lost. no one is fucking innocent. the night is dark, even though the skies above are not black. they glow in a yellowish colour that casts no light, only wind. what does that mean, being innocent. none of us is. the guilt, it stains us, we cannot get rid of it. i understood, i understood it all for a moment, a moment i could not hold, a moment blown by the wind. it was clear. i was clear, i with my stains, with my guilt. sorrow, whatever, innocence long since lost. of course. pride is a thug, one that fears not doing the dirty job. we deliver it all into its hands, it fixes everything. and we rest. we give ourselves excuses. it's not us. it's so damn easy to give excuses, to find meaningless reasons for our failures, to rely on pride to do what we could not bring ourselves to do, to distract ourselves in petty activities and thoughts while part of us is being murdered in the night. we know it, we avert our eyes, we ignore the sight and pray for it to go away. it won't. we know it. it's so easy to say no. it's so easy, and we do it, we do it time after time, so we can hide our weaknesses and our fears while we convince ourselves that we did the right thing. the right thing never helps, i said once. the right thing is never done, i say now. it wasn't done, it will never be done. and here i am now, blown by the wind. would you know it? probably not. you could destroy me now, you could lay waste on whatever is left of me with a single word, with a simple word. you don't know it, you can't know it, and i, i will sit here in the dark watching, waiting to see you go, it's the next best thing. i also do.