The following is from my site, thediaryofajihad.blogger.com. Originally, it was paragraphed, but it went belly up.


I stood on the hard concrete that brisk morning; frost sluggishly edged forward from my mouth, like a plume of smoke. Far below, frost clung greedily to the ground... I looked up again, and could see for miles- but what was there to see? The city spread before me was mainly greys, broken up by the occasional green of a grass patch, or the dry autumn brown of a tree's leaves. I had long since lost interest in such things, as the world is a cold and ugly place; any beauty is superficial, be it in humans, actions, or what was spread before me. Behind the towers of glass- oppressive, hateful things that they were- protruded the sun, perhaps hiding, shunning the earth, or maybe just dragging itself lazily awake.
The orange light hit the frozen dewdrops upon the grass, and the morning frost, and cast itself off in a thousand poles of light; these leaped forward, attacking the eyes of those who looked on it, and gifting the buildings with an orange glow, an aurora, if you will.
It was a ghost town, or seemed to be, as nobody was out yet; there was a car or two parked at the kerb far below where I was stood, odd colours they were as the orange of the sun discoloured them. The rest were hidden away in garages, kept safe from the evil out beyond.
For some reason, this made me think back to my childhood; days full of joy, happiness, belonging. Days before I became the shadow of a man that I am today. One particular poem came to mind; "A visit from saint Nicholas". I was beginning to have my doubts about whether or not I could do it... But I had just been one big struggle since the day I was born. Childhood dreams had been shattered by turmoil; childhood spirit destroyed by abuse; and childhood itself crushed by life.
I took a tentative step closer to the edge, almost cautiously; 'Rediculous', I told myself, 'It wouldn't matter if I slipped.'. But there was the old self preservation again; if I died, it would be through choice, and by no accident.
I steeled myself, looking down at the icy road below; orange flecked Tarmac, eating away at the ice slowly. The energy rush I felt at that moment was pretty much indescribable. It was like a lightning bolt running through my veins instead of the hot, frothing blood. I took a step forward with all the force of a freight train, closer than ever to the edge, and jumped...
While falling, I envisioned myself in an empty cinema, viewing the very events which led me up to this; all the things I had done, all the lives I had taken. I knew I was going straight to hell, as I felt the wind rush through my hair, almost tearing it from the very follicles in which they sat, perched arrogantly atop my head. I felt good as I fell, o my brothers, I fell. All the colours I saw had mixed into one; I saw a spectrum of greens, greys, autumn browns, and the occasional orange thrown in for good luck. They advanced quickly, never retreating, moving relentlessly closer and closer. Again, I cast my mind back to my childhood.
At first, the thoughts were random, disconnected from each other, almost reminiscent of peanut butter or pâté in a cement mixer. I pushed my mind to its boundaries, and in return it offered me one coherent thought; Clarke Moore. I thought again of the better times, of my mother and father.
I thought hard, trying to warn my past self not to take this site, to reserve his innocence, though it was arduous, and impossible. Giving up, I thought of how the happy little boy would end his life, falling.
And I wept, O my brothers, I wept as I hit the floor.