quote:

My sickness came crawling (unnecessary word. Though "came" is a bit weak. I suggest perhaps "My sickness crawled into me after the collision" which gets rid of both redundancy and "came") after the collision, (part after the semicolon isn't an independent clause, so comma is the more correction option) where I diverged from the boils of humanity and demanded a justifiable rationale for human (unnecessary adjectives, which weaken the writing) salvation. The tension had built itself up, and for the most part I had found it invigorating- (no point in suddenly using "hads" which only weaken the writing. Just stay in regular past tense) it continued to pump the blood from under my flesh skin (quite literally, blood is under skin and /in/ flesh) and gave purpose to the meaningless. I wove my tale on the borderline of breaking, and that is how I spent my life. Two-score till I broke: (I think it's more of an elaboration than a joining) myself, man on wire.

To take a life, one life at a time, is meaningless; to save a life, one life at a time, is meaningless. So (more balanced form of punctuation, imo) what more can a man strive to do to help society? His tale will end in failure, and only his successors shall be immortalized- he was just the man who paved the path to deliverance, not the one to walk down upon ("down" sounds weaker) it. Sure, I envision a better future; however, I do not speak from the vantage point of society, for I have long left my humanity in my trail.

Does justice come to the tragic hero, the sacrificial scapegoat, or do only the innocent shower in their contributions? From the blackest crevasse the truth hides (the sudden ye olde speak jarred me right out of the story), and my knees would buckle me to the floor (awkward) before I think twice of venturing into such depths. I know that I do not exist for a purpose; I am not here as for a trial- to see if I succumb to temptations and lose myself to sin- nor am I here to walk the passage to the threshold of some deity, so until I find inarguable evidence which would suggest me wrong, I exist to simply exist.

A child is forced to cup his hands and beg down on his knees- society bore him an undesirable. Between my thumb and forefinger, I hold on tenderly to a dismal dime, but do I hold sympathy? I do not succumb to greed; my concern is for the aftermath of my obliteration. Each step I take, I know that under every footstep curls the withered wing of a pretty butterfly. Existence is quite the gamble.

Concrete silhouettes: the finer details of it all are hidden in the contrast. Man has secrets, and so be it that man, composed of shame and pride, masks himself from others. It’s only human. I can easily recall time and time again when my stride broke under the judgment of my peers; they claw at you and watch you bleed out. Watch you recover. Watch you callus. You, yourself, become an infection- your thirst grows, all with good intent, because humanity thrives on such a virus. Oh, but the path to hell (if you mean the literal "Hell" a capital is probably needed. If you simply mean "a nasty place" then the current version is fine) is paved with good intentions.

I don’t know where to align myself, what my intentions are and ("shall be" isn't independent so the comma is unnecessary beside the "and) shall be. I’m out for a stroll, watching chaos wreak havoc wreaking corruption (Weird form and repetition intentional?); as my hand unfolds, the dime rolls from its pocket and down to the cement pavement. It rolls bounches (repetition of "rolls") to the grittiness of the curb and not a single soul cringes. Not a single one takes notice. I am free from their grasp, free from their judgment; I am but an entity existing among them, and the feeling could change a cynic to a saint if they hadn’t differed mostly the same.

Seven seconds earlier, I could have dropped the dime into the cupped hands of the boy; it would sway from end to end before burrowing into its scrawny new home. The child would find himself at a loss of breath, and would repay me with but an innocent grin- whoring his youth. A man passing by would shoot his upper-lip to the side and growl at me in disgust before emptying his wallet into the boy’s basket of donations. He would damn me without a second thought and forget me the following day.

When the man is buried six-feet under, the boy shall fade from his conscience, but the boy shall still exists (unnecessary repetition of "shall"). Not knowing the weight of a dollar, he would have gone and spent it on fashionables once he had guaranteed purchased ("guaranteed" doesn't fit and "had" is unneeded) the essentials for tomorrow’s day, and more dependant he would grow. Desires would become necessities, a costly fate; having his youth early years founded on succumbing to temptations, he would soon discover himself on the precipice of his journey. Society bore him an undesirable, and so he shall stay.

The boy, once forced to cup his hands and beg down on his knees, would either accept his come-uppance and wither away with the rest of the town, or he would turn the tables on the world which nursed him from adolescence. Should he steal, lie, cheat, or kill- the blood would bathe on my hands- and as man sees me walking down 4th Street, bloodying his roads in innocence, I’ll be sure to tip my hat and tell him, “I’m paving this road for you.”

Oh, but my angst is meaningless; man can no longer judge me.

However, I swear, if man had but one neck, and myself some good intentions…

quote:

I had a father; the old man was not abusive- his entire life revolved around sparing generosity to strangers. He drank on occasion, sure, but hardly occasion enough to let it consume his mind. In all definitions of the words, he was a “good guy,” thriving on the joyous appreciation of his sons and daughters, succumbing not to the sins integrated into American society, and spreading his wealth to the poor- it’s a shame the man was blind. The blindness which consumes you, and once consumed myself (Huh? Is the narrator blind as well? Did his father's blindness affect him in a very large way? I really don't get what you're trying to say here), is the most prominent fault of man. Colors are just colors; they hold no depth when you are blind. They’re (too many dashes in this paragraph, in my opinion) just teachings passed down from your guardians to fit you in with everyone else mould you into yet another of society's clones (Eh, you don't have to take this suggestion literally. I just thought "fit you in" was a bit informal and awkward compared to the rest of the passage. Feel free to use any phrase of your choice to substitute it. "transform you into everybody else" "blend you into society" Take your pick). Man is forgetting the meanings behind all colors of the perpetual spectrum.

A plague on our house, I'm afraid; we were unprepared and still far too unwise to foresee and accept the future. Immortality is hell, but only for the immortal. I writhe in abandonment; one can easily choose his fate, especially with man's technological achievements, so why would one wish to discard their heart? The flames cackle as earth and fire finish the cycle of ash to ash. Humanity, memories, and purpose disperse into the night, and time forgets you forevermore.

I am aware of my issues- I know I can no longer deal with them, so I let them burden and let myself scar burden me and scar me (Awkward. I dunno if my suggestion is any better). It builds (while some amount of grammatical incorrectness if necessary in first person, I think this one--unlike the one after it--sounds out of character. It's too blatantly incorrect for someone to talks so eloquently) character. Which I’m sure I am (Er... huh? You're sure you are a character? That's okay, but the problem is that, in the last sentence, "character" was used as a personality trait, not as a type of person [a storybook character]. This only makes sense in conjunction with the last sentence if you say "Which I'm sure I have" [you have character]). Minor nuisances are seldom reason enough to end one’s life, but since all exist to simply exist, entities are free to do what they wish to (less wordy like this). Perhaps envisions are my pacemaker- a man can call me out on my slum heritage, but my wealth is apparent. A day is all I can hopelessly (unnecessary -ly adverb, since "dream" usually makes it sound far-fetched to begin with) dream for, only but a day, where my wealth could be shared amongst the putrid. Gift wrapped with a little (unneeded comma) red bow reflecting off the morning haze (unnecessary comma since the stuff after "and" isn't an independent clause. Or, alternatively, you could keep the comma and kill the "and" [which might be better since you use "and" later in the sentence]) and dangling off to the side would be a card loosely adhered and signed with my name- my little present to the world.

The world would rain for the last time and I would solely (confusing and unnecessary. I don't get what you mean by "solely" You're the only one who looks up at the sky? You look up at the sky in a lonely way? Looking up at the sky is the only thing you do?) look up into the sky and watch the gears in heaven strain as they churned. Man would come to a revelation, face momentary rebirth, and live out his days disgusted by his existence- the picture is always an ugly one when things come full circle. Oh, but child would take man’s place soon thereafter (unnecessary, but you can keep it if you want a pause) and forget the lesson learned. The innocence of society shall be overcome by the innocence of the succeeding generation: the irony of it all. I shall dream for such a day- hopelessly, I shall dream. However, (dash is rather awkward in conjunction with the beginning of the sentence. If you don't want a full-stop, a semi-colon will do) once we meet at eye-level, I shall turn away from such a dream. Call me a saint if you so wish, but there is no reason in destroying man when it is unjustifiable to take the life of a child.

I live by my ethics, I live by my rationality, and I live by my own judgment. Who else is there to rely on? The horrid person who has experienced the world for what it is, he is the seer of this day and age. No longer plighted by the blindness of man, he is capable of viewing the spectrum of colors hidden between the blacks and whites. What a shame it is that he cannot find truth without discovering regret within himself- every step he takes is an assumption, a high-stakes assumption, based on the colors that shine taint (colours don't exactly shine the world--light does that. However, they do paint the world. I chose "taint" instead to enhance the dark feeling of the story) the world.

I must admit that, even after my collision, I still feel the tension. My flesh curls at the notion of diverging back into history- as ("when" can also work if you don't want to repeat "as." But nothing is a bad idea because there's nothing connecting this idea with the idea behind the comma) my condition plummets to a worsened state spirals downward ("plummets" is strong, but "worsened state" is rather weak, in my opinion), I lock my eyes closed and choke my jaw up as remembering becomes a more complicated process. I may have eliminated the virus of humanity from my mind, but the scars left behind chill my body to its core.

I’m aware of my issues; I had a father. I must admit, even after my collision, I still feel the tension- by my ethics, my rationality, and (flows better without) my own judgment.

The world would rain for the last time and I would solely look up into the sky and watch the gears in heaven strain as they churned. A (I don't think that semicolon is necessary) plague on my house, I’m afraid.


*****

Man is but chemistry and conscience interlocked to take form (quite sure a lotta things have form, so this is unnecessary). Amidst their simplicity is the complication to respect them; I should dare not take a child under my wing, for I may have to illustrate some admiration (not sure what you mean here. Do you have to pretend to admire the child? Or pretend to have admirable qualities so that the child admires you? Make it more clear). Share my wealth. But to whom shall I be sharing it with? Boys are imaginative, and for half their lives they are love drunk and driven to satisfy society- they are malleable in the affectionate hands of corruption. Girls have visions of the world that are as complex as a puzzle made of shattered glass- they’re too ("too" wrecked the balance) random, they’re seductive, they’re made of sugar, spice, and everything nice- but, then again, so is the Atom Bomb till scorned.

The sun creeps from behind silhouette (what the heck is a silhouette building? A building has a silhouette, but I'm unaware of a building that /is/ a silhouette) buildings and the sky continues to gloom darken (not sure if "gloom" can be used a verb here) as clouds gather from up above. A (overuse of semicolons) stoop deteriorated by time provides me the accommodation to rest for the fraction of a moment. The reign of masses congesting into the streets carry upon themselves the weight of sprung umbrellas blinding them from retribution. They cower like the rats they denounced as scum- unintelligent, superficial, and savage. Cornered through terrorism and apprehensive of reason, they protect themselves from one another. Every man has it in him to kill another- they know that all selves are teetering on the precipice of extinction and they shall take a few extra limbs with them if it’ll grant them one last breath. Yet, they do not realize that man is the harbinger of death.

A droplet of rain treads into befouled territory as it dives head-first into the fractures of pavement. With fingernails outgrown (outgrown? Your nails or too long? Or do you mean "outstretched"?), I peel away at the deadened flesh blanketing my forefinger and begin the stopwatch. I observe time, watch it pass me by and watch it forget. Meaningless moments building up the benevolence of serenity towards mayhem- such a tragedy that this is the constant variable for all. Even when man has nothing else, he still has time.

What was time in the beginning? What did it consist of? What were its intentions? As it moves on, men bleed, children die, faith is questioned; men thrive, children slumber, and faith is lost. An unstoppable force tainted with the manipulation of human intent by human manipulation (cleaner, less wordy), disaster dissipates in its path (if disaster dissipates, that means it's a good thing since it causes disaster to go. Which seems to contrast the melancholy way you portray time), so where is it heading? Perhaps all of mankind is heading for its own collision (perhaps "conclusion" is more powerful)- the sickness is within the fine details of evolution.

You scrutinize life’s ambiguities and make no progress, while I comprehend the picture full circle and hunt for the rationale. Failure leaves me desperate; my mouth dries and the shallow of man’s desires tastes ("shallow" is a noun, not "desires" so this verb should match up to the singular rather than the plural) all too bitter to keep me satisfied. It’s infuriating. With hands interlocked, I clicked off the stopwatch pinned in between and set it at my side- the rain had ceased. Pavement blackened; (technically should be a semicolon, but this rule is violated so much that you can keep the comma) a little boy crosses my path. He turns and waves meekly at me before continuing to walk the busied street- no intentions, mindlessly meeting my acquaintance… knowing I should soon forget.

I am not one to forget. Memories bleed themselves onto my skin and each scar becomes more prominent with each passing day. They do not burden- they create. I have merely become another powerful weapon in the arsenal of righteousness.

The stopwatch reads:
8:06.45


*****

No life has a value (are you sure you want to keep the "a"?), we all balance mutually at absolute zero. Consider it arrogance that turns my head from the putrid squirming at my waist- they bellow and wail till their voices become hoarse and their throats bleed out. We stand on equal ground; there is no forgetting. Man was created equal to be deliverance's scapegoat- justice is killing one man to save a thousand, for man is immaculate to the vastness of the cosmos. I have no intent to jump in front of a bullet without the guarantee of catching it in the palm of my hand.

I am no catcher in the rye; I have fallen the distance long ago and am perceptive enough to know it was not innocence that I lost once I collapse over fate's edge. Perhaps I willingly descended, thinking it my ascension from society, but I no longer know nor care- I am here to stay. In all probability, I shall stay here in these so lonely depths for man has many willing to catch him. Faith, family, greed, reason. The irrational, fears, love, sanctuary, entertainment, comfort. Sanity, memories, dreams, condition. Blindness.

My voice has hallowed out my own memories, a forgotten fragment. My brother remains a gilded god, mother: a melancholic harlequin, and my father a benevolent [---] (I assume you were censoring yourself here. I suggest replacing the word with an appropriate one rather than leaving a blank). The sickness crawls and eats you out like a parasite on a rotting host; regret is an enticing narcotic, but I have the good grace to pass it by with a hat untipped. Perhaps it shall come to rain again and the condensation can fog out these temptations.

Man so easily chooses to measure the weight of a life, presume it’s impact, blemish the future. They sentence death so to inflict terrorism on all future hooligans and delinquents- my body cringes at the thought of using torches as butterfly nets. Freely, we suspend corpses of convicts and never feel the grudge of savagery. Two-score I was patriot for terrorism, yet I reflect to see the fruitlessness of our actions: we cleansed the wound by amputating the leg.

Thirteen steps up to (not sure about this one) the gallows- watch as the earth quakes under each one. The executioner in white straddles a rope around the neck of the scum shallowing out his cries. He is innocent, so they cut out his tongue. As the floor drops from below him, he surrenders to the ultimate, unexisting deity. Watch as the innocent man (more powerful without, in my opinion) hangs. They refuse to listen to reason, refuse the probability that they have taken the life of a man who has done wrong only on occasion. Society gives their thumbs down as the man takes his final, gasping breath. They are devouring themselves- only one verdict remains suspended in indecision: who shall hang the executioner?

And on that moment hung eternity.

quote:

shine taint (colours don't exactly shine the world--light does that. However, they do paint the world. I chose "taint" instead to enhance the dark feeling of the story) the world.

quote:

I dare not take a child under my wing, for I may have to illustrate some admiration (not sure what you mean here. Do you have to pretend to admire the child? Or pretend to have admirable qualities so that the child admires you? Make it more clear).

quote:

The sun creeps from behind the silhouette (what the heck is a silhouette building? A building has a silhouette, but I'm unaware of a building that /is/ a silhouette) buildings.