|Nicola Carmine Lee Cavataio (littlenicky) wrote,|
@ 2008-09-03 11:01:00
|Current music:||Vivaldi "Four Seasons: Winter 1st Movement|
Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone.
The acidic revelations burned at the tip of his tongue as he wanted to tell someone, anyone. To alleviate his pain by taking away some, but no one dares to even offer. Out of desperation, the old boy is even eager to tell the paid listener who watches the clock tick, and cares more about what they'll have for lunch than what the boy with a wild imagination has to say. The priest in his confidential booth would remain mum to the boy's confessions as he pours his heart out, and then silence will make its debut. The boy would hope that the Father would understood, feel sympathy, and maybe reach out to him. Yet only to be thrown out by the robed leader of religion who thought he did a good deed by ridding the confused child who had nothing better to do than to try and pull a fast one over the church. The God that the child was told that loved him unconditionally did not forget about him, but worse, for the all-powerful being made certain a curse be placed on the forsaken child's life. That his life would always stick out like a festering corpse amongst those that breathed, slept, ate their cushioned lives. He could always see the strings and the puppeteer up above that would control the motions of his life, and the boy could do nothing but oblige knowingly. Ignorance is bliss for what is knowledge that cannot be applied? If members of his family ever found out his oath to secrecy had been ever broken that they would have no more reason to keep him alive. Being his father's son would never be enough. A family he would sacrifice his life in protecting so they would in turn, preserve him to continue serving. Wretched cycle that churns through generation after generation. Its rough edges greased by the blood that they sought, the blood that they revered, and the blood that they deemed pure. His was not. Therefore it wasn't sought, let alone revered. He was as much of his father's son as any of the three pure legitimate sons before him. All in the same predicament to be ill-fated for a life that guaranteed chaos and mayhem. Yet named after his father fittingly, Nicola C. Cavataio was a carbon copy of his father's youth. How in all angles, all shadows, and all lightings, the two were identical during that ripe age. An irony that would only play out its humor at the end of the game. Oh how he hoped that Like Father, Like Son only proved true in cookie cutter films. Echoing his mother's looks, the boy still took after much of his father. That a DNA test would be redundant. Their first encounter that he would narrate countless of times for his assigned audience trying to figure out what it all meant.