Post by Ian DiLeo on Apr 16, 2009 23:56:10 GMT -5
Immaculate adj.- free from fault or flaw; free from errors.
The academy?
Trade school?
The stage?
A man sits alone under the protection of a gazebo during a thunderstorm. The horizon is pitch black with patches of lightning illuminating the scene. His foot taps against the wood-paneled floor, keeping a steady "1-2" beat. The pitter-patter of the rain on the roof of the structure compliments the man's tapping. His shape is lean and he wears a fedora on his head, probably black. The darkness of the night shadows his face and most of his body. He can be heard whistling softly behind the rhythym of the rain.
There is a lightning and a crackling thunder that lights up the sky.
For a brief second, the man can be seen in full light and detail. Under his hat, his eyes are glazed and shadowed with black make-up. His hair sticks out from under his hat, gently swaying to his left with the wind. Other than the sleeves of tattoos on his arms, his skin is pale and nearly colorless. In contrast, the clothing he wears blends well with the shadows.
The crackling thunder echoes. The whistling ends.
I'm afraid of thunder. It terrifies me. I've been scared of thunderstorms ever since I was six years old. It's nearly been twenty-years already since I last saw them. Everytime I hear the powerful sounds of the heavens, I am reminded of that fateful day.
"Don't worry, honey, we'll be okay," are the last words she ever spoke to me. "I love you," are the last words I ever heard from him. What a tragedy my life was destined to be from that day forward. What was I expected to do? What could any six year old kid do? There were no options, there were only sentences. Prisoners don't have options, they have sentences given to them. I was only six and I was sentenced. Misery, anger, loathing, and silence were options that later presented themselves with my sentence.
Lightning streaks across the horizon once more. For another brief second, the man is unveiled from the shadows. His arms are stretched out along the railing of his seat. His hands rest on top of the wooden back-railing while his fingers are relaxed, pointing downwards towards the gazebo bench.
My name is Ian DiLeo. I am twenty-five years old and I chose to break free from my sentence. A life that only led to misery and unhappiness is not what I had planned.
It took time but I found something that helped me recover. Within a couple years after their death, I discovered my taste for music. It was a taste for noise and a taste for a guitar. It was a taste for screams. Innocent ears bled to the music that accompanied me. Soon after, I discoverd my playground. While my classmates danced across the blacktop to the rhythym of a kickball, I found comfort between the ropes. Not only did I find comfort between the ropes, I found my calling.
For years I've been crashing to the mat and taking others with me. And with each body I send to the mat, I hear that same sound I heard that night. I hear the echo of thunder. It is music. It was music I could not make with my guitar. And I wanted my opponents to hear that sound, too. I wanted that same sound to echo through their minds and be synonymous with pain. My fear will become their fear.
The rain begins to fall harder and the rhythym picks up. The man now known as Ian DiLeo begins to speak in a more malignant manner.
Leaving behind a career with my guitar, I've now been called upon by World Wrestling Entertainment. And with this calling, I feel that I can rest easier and venture closer to the storm. I am no longer hiding under the covers or sitting in a dark corner with a flashlight. The guaranteed opportunity I have to share my fear of the storm with others on a regular basis leaves me satisfied. When people see me in the locker room, they should immediately be reminded of the pain they endure every match. My tag team partners should lay in bed restless at the memory of our most recent match. They will remember the effortless punishment and brutality I am capable of unleashing between the ropes. They will remember how flawless I have become.
DiLeo pauses for nearly ten seconds. The rhythym is ruthless.
People have asked me why I'm here. People tell me there are other ways to cope with my life. Apparently, I do have options. Suddenly, at twenty-five years old, I have options. As a matter of fact, I've had options for the past ten years. And guess what? I've continued to fight and I will keep fighting. Why? Because each day I must look my fear in the eye and tell it go to hell. And in doing so, I have accomplished more than I ever would with any other option.
There is a lightning and a crackling thunder that lights up the sky.
For a brief second, the man can be seen in full light and detail. Under his hat, his eyes are glazed and shadowed with black make-up. His hair sticks out from under his hat, gently swaying to his left with the wind. Other than the sleeves of tattoos on his arms, his skin is pale and nearly colorless. In contrast, the clothing he wears blends well with the shadows.
The crackling thunder echoes. The whistling ends.
I'm afraid of thunder. It terrifies me. I've been scared of thunderstorms ever since I was six years old. It's nearly been twenty-years already since I last saw them. Everytime I hear the powerful sounds of the heavens, I am reminded of that fateful day.
"Don't worry, honey, we'll be okay," are the last words she ever spoke to me. "I love you," are the last words I ever heard from him. What a tragedy my life was destined to be from that day forward. What was I expected to do? What could any six year old kid do? There were no options, there were only sentences. Prisoners don't have options, they have sentences given to them. I was only six and I was sentenced. Misery, anger, loathing, and silence were options that later presented themselves with my sentence.
Lightning streaks across the horizon once more. For another brief second, the man is unveiled from the shadows. His arms are stretched out along the railing of his seat. His hands rest on top of the wooden back-railing while his fingers are relaxed, pointing downwards towards the gazebo bench.
My name is Ian DiLeo. I am twenty-five years old and I chose to break free from my sentence. A life that only led to misery and unhappiness is not what I had planned.
It took time but I found something that helped me recover. Within a couple years after their death, I discovered my taste for music. It was a taste for noise and a taste for a guitar. It was a taste for screams. Innocent ears bled to the music that accompanied me. Soon after, I discoverd my playground. While my classmates danced across the blacktop to the rhythym of a kickball, I found comfort between the ropes. Not only did I find comfort between the ropes, I found my calling.
For years I've been crashing to the mat and taking others with me. And with each body I send to the mat, I hear that same sound I heard that night. I hear the echo of thunder. It is music. It was music I could not make with my guitar. And I wanted my opponents to hear that sound, too. I wanted that same sound to echo through their minds and be synonymous with pain. My fear will become their fear.
The rain begins to fall harder and the rhythym picks up. The man now known as Ian DiLeo begins to speak in a more malignant manner.
Leaving behind a career with my guitar, I've now been called upon by World Wrestling Entertainment. And with this calling, I feel that I can rest easier and venture closer to the storm. I am no longer hiding under the covers or sitting in a dark corner with a flashlight. The guaranteed opportunity I have to share my fear of the storm with others on a regular basis leaves me satisfied. When people see me in the locker room, they should immediately be reminded of the pain they endure every match. My tag team partners should lay in bed restless at the memory of our most recent match. They will remember the effortless punishment and brutality I am capable of unleashing between the ropes. They will remember how flawless I have become.
DiLeo pauses for nearly ten seconds. The rhythym is ruthless.
People have asked me why I'm here. People tell me there are other ways to cope with my life. Apparently, I do have options. Suddenly, at twenty-five years old, I have options. As a matter of fact, I've had options for the past ten years. And guess what? I've continued to fight and I will keep fighting. Why? Because each day I must look my fear in the eye and tell it go to hell. And in doing so, I have accomplished more than I ever would with any other option.
The academy?
Go to hell.
Why should I sacrifice this blessing to be different? To be novel?
Trade school?
Go to hell.
I'm not a pawn. I'm the knight, with multiple angles of attack.
The stage?
Go to hell.
The only stage I'll ever perform on will be owned by a McMahon.
[/color]The rhythym begins to slow down as the sky runs dry and the noise moves further and further into the horizon.
My name is Ian DiLeo. With their death, I have chosen life. I have chosen to rise from the ashes of misery and conquer the fear which has tried to sentence me. It has tried to sentence me to a bitter, low life. But I sit here today amongst my greatest enemies, ready to do battle and cleanse my conscience of all fear.
With the words of my idol forever embedded into my being, today I stand closer to the storm, hoping to one day stand beyond this gazebo, inside of the storm...hoping to one day be a WWE Champion...hoping to one day be as unforgettable as that fateful night is to me. I am Ian DiLeo and through my tribulations I have become immaculate. A rockstar. A superstar. I am Ian DiLeo.
And for my opponents, I am the storm.
[/color]My name is Ian DiLeo. With their death, I have chosen life. I have chosen to rise from the ashes of misery and conquer the fear which has tried to sentence me. It has tried to sentence me to a bitter, low life. But I sit here today amongst my greatest enemies, ready to do battle and cleanse my conscience of all fear.
"Expose yourself to your deepest fear. After that, the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free." -Jim Morrison
With the words of my idol forever embedded into my being, today I stand closer to the storm, hoping to one day stand beyond this gazebo, inside of the storm...hoping to one day be a WWE Champion...hoping to one day be as unforgettable as that fateful night is to me. I am Ian DiLeo and through my tribulations I have become immaculate. A rockstar. A superstar. I am Ian DiLeo.
And for my opponents, I am the storm.
Lightning brightens the scene again. Ian DiLeo sits with his left leg crossed, resting on his right. His hands and fingers remain numb and undisturbed. The tattoos on his arm scream at the camera, projecting vividly off his monotone skin. The rhythym is steady. The rain is light. The thunder is distant. The scene is immaculate. The shadows begin to grow. The shadows engulf all light.
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