Comments:Greek blog aggregation service administrator jailed, service censored

== Comments from feedback form - "“Fallen Son of Greece” He who ..." ==

“Fallen Son of Greece” He who needs Compassion, Not Condemnation

As he lay on the hard cot, he tried to shake himself awake even though his eyes were wide open. His heart pounded erratically in his chest and it squeezed with an ache, such as he has never known. Even when he had lost loved ones to death, he had never felt such loss and loneliness. It’s as if he himself had lost his soul and he lived in limbo without it, not knowing if the next day his body would follow it into the blind depths of oblivion. Every moment of every single day, he wanted to whimper and weep for his losses, cry to the heavens and fates for their audacity to abandon him to his own devises. He was a man, a child of God, yet he felt like an outcast. He had chosen this path and he wanted to balk at the possible finality of it. He had entered a pact with the devil and lost. He was lost. As he lay here, he realized that this world that encompassed him now was so foreign to him that he trembled with an unspeakable rage and frustration. He could not move without permission. He could not bathe without onlookers. He could not shed tears without an audience. He could not be himself. God he missed human contact. He was a very affectionate person. With his family and friends. He missed making love with utter abandon, with no thought to the next moment. To just lay in the arms of another and inhale the scent of lovemaking. And now, the next moment only brought more questions and fear. He did not want to think about the future, yet how could he not? It was only human to seek the unknown. It was only human to hope and pray for a positive outcome. For how long would he be lost? Always he had known who he was even when sometimes the path of life carried him into parts unknown or parts that were fraught with danger. But he liked danger. He thrived on danger. At least controlled danger. When he controlled the aspects of the danger he partook, he felt somewhat at ease. Yet, somehow, his level-headedness and conservative ways had abandoned him as of late. Ok, he had been doing very stupid things for the past few years, and he had known it would not be without consequence. However, he had never thought his gold-lined life, would be drastically affected so soon. He had figured that he would die young. Yes, that was acceptable to him as long as he lived to see himself married and the father of beautiful children. His earnings would assure them all a great life. If he lived to middle age doing what he had to do now, then those he loved and held dear would reap the benefits. Especially his parents. They were his biggest supporters and loved him unconditionally. No matter what. So, now that he could earn unbelievable amounts of money legally, he was going to make certain that he would do so for a very long time to come. He never thought himself to be a selfish man. He saw that his money helped the poor and children in need. Coming from a strong family, he wanted to help those who could not help themselves. He had his moments when selfish urges overtook him. But he chalked it up to being human. He always told himself that he was just a man and as a man he was allowed to make mistakes. Hell, God banked on him screwing up every now and again. Isn’t that why they had confession? And, he never hurt anyone but himself. Yet in the doing, he continued to build his bank account. He continued to stand as a good role model for the young people of his country. Everyone loved him. How could they not? He was young and beautiful. He was a gift to his people. And he loved it. Most of the time. How could a man not love being loved. It feeds the soul and urges one to embrace all that people expect of one. And as the expectations grow, so too does the stress of maintaining oneself, preserving that which separates one from all the others. He was special. His eyes were the portals to a diverse world. They pulled people in and held on. Even though most only saw him in magazines or video clips, they believed they knew him. Hell, they believed they loved him. How could a man not enjoy some ounce of that? At least in the beginning. He stretched his athletic body whose muscles seemed to atrophy each day he spent locked up in this cage. His 6’2” frame boasted muscle with not an ounce of fat. Each striation could be seen. But he was by no means big. His body was perfection. They called him a Greek God. And, as he knew all too well, all gods have their weak-nesses. It was no wonder that men had gone crazy here. It was no wonder that mad-ness had overtaken their minds. A place like this could devour a man’s soul and sanity. It’s cold stone walls offered no solace, but a world of frigid abandon. Here you were lost and in time you were forgotten by most. Even one such as he. Millions claimed him. Millions loved him. Yet in time, the only ones who would remember him were his family and perhaps a few really close friends. All others would forget he ever existed. And that was one of the things that frightened him so much. That and the fact that he would lose his best years to a place where lost souls were born every day. Each day and into the night his mind replayed the events that landed him here. Truth be told he had known somewhere deep in his core that he would not get away with it. He had been raised better than that. He had been taught better than that. Yet the disease had taken hold. It had pushed him to do things that he knew he shouldn’t do. In the end, he betrayed everything that he had been raised to be. In the end, he had betrayed all those he loved and who loved him. In the end, he had betrayed himself. Worst of all he had betrayed his parents. The hardest thing was to look into his mother’s beautiful eyes and see the disappointment and fear there. He had done that to her. He had repaid all of her kindness and love with betrayal and stupidity. How do you apologize for that? There are no words that can measure up. As they say ‘actions speak louder than words’. And his actions had revealed a naive, selfish act whose ramifications could prove detrimental to the rest of his life. Instead of the ‘Son of Greece’ he would be the ‘lost son’. Would his country abandon him? Would it forget everything he had done that was good and kind? Would it forget that he was still young and had made a terrible mistake? One huge, terrible mistake. Would they make an example out of him? Would his country turn its back on him when he needed it the most. He was broken and needed understanding and not condemnation. He needed to be taken in and revitalized. He needed people to understand a world that they would never touch nor fully comprehend, his world. He needed his people, who had adored him so, to embrace him with love and compassion. He did not need to be judged over and over again. His self-recrimination was enough for the entire world. His charmed life had turned into a living nightmare. He could blame it on the industry. One hundred and fifty thousand percent, he could blame the industry. Yet his actions were his own. And even though there were threats made to compel him to follow through, he made the ultimate choice to commit to the action that landed him here. It was surreal. Lying in the dark, with no plush accommodations, he shivered. His skin crawled and his mind screamed its denial. He tried to rewrite the script that had turned his life to shit. He tried to wake himself up in the moment when he had been so damned stupid. Tears filled his eyes. His gorgeous green/blue eyes that separated him from all others. His nose became stuffed as his heart broke. Grabbing the hard pillow, he screamed into it. All of his pent up rage and frustration was muffled by the pillow. He didn’t want any of the guards to hear him. He didn’t want any of them to talk about how low he had fallen. The least he could offer his family was to suffer alone and as quietly as possible. His throat ached and his body burned with a craving so raw it singed his very veins. The disease was making itself known. The doctors said it would be hard. They offered him medication to ease the pain and to reduce his urges. Yet, he wanted to fight his demons in his own way. He wanted to tell those demons to go fuck themselves. The demons had controlled him long enough. They had made his life hell. So, he refused any medication, though he met with his psychiatrist regularly. Normally, he wasn’t one to discuss his feelings openly with anyone. He held things in and expected to maintain an appearance of perfection as the public had always expected. However, that is what had gotten him here, he suspected. So, he had decided to abandon silence and speak his mind. And it was mandatory that he see the good doctor. To play the game was the best for everyone. God, why did it have to hurt so God-damned bad. Sweat seeped from every pore in his body, yet he shook from a frigidness that burned in his core. Gods weren’t suppose to be brought down so damned low. He groaned then cried as a cramp ripped through his stomach. Curling up into a ball, he held his middle and rocked like a child. He just wanted to sleep. That’s all he did lately. Sleep and eat. He wanted to work his body to feel a natural burn to his muscles, but he didn’t have the energy. The disease stole that from him too. The disease, it asked so much of him. It’s toll was so high that now when faced with it, he wanted to run very far, very fast from it. How could he have done this to himself? Why would he inflict so much suffering on himself just to prolong an inevitable outcome? He was smart enough to know that his end would be tragic if he continued on the way he had been going. All of his veins were strained, begging for release. Begging him for the euphoria and energy he had maintained for years. All he could do was sob. The pain was so excruciating that he just wanted to die. He prayed to God to take him. He told God that he was not worthy of His ear, yet he begged Him to end his suffering. To take away the pain and the embarrassment of what he had done. The sorrow was like a weight pulling at his heart. The sorrow was all enveloping like an abyss of dark water that gave no quarter and bade him to just inhale  The sorrow also begged for something. It begged for him to end it all. It would be so much easier that way. He would not have to face the public. He would never need to face his mother again. He would be just another soul lost to the industry and the monsters that preyed on the innocent. But he could not do that to his beloved mother. She had made him promise that no matter how bad it got, no matter how horrible he felt, he would not hurt himself. Curse the gods, he had made that promise. Above all things, he would never intentionally cause her more pain than he already had. That would be a disgrace. But she had known. She had understood before he had that it would come to that decision. In her wisdom, she had purposely bound him to this life. Deep down, he wished she would just let him go. But that was not to be. She had bound him with invisible shackles to this world. She had bound him to her with her unwavering love. A mother’s love. He had done what he had done to make his body perfect and to be able to use his body to get ahead in a fast-paced world where co-workers were devoured daily. And now, it was falling apart on him. Everything that he had built was crumbling around his feet. He had worked so damn hard and now it was gone. Would he ever get it back? Didn’t the authorities realize that he was not the source. He had been used and not in a good way. Yet, if he told, life could get a whole lot more dangerous. He didn’t really know those who had approached him. Grabbing his short hair, he pulled his throbbing head into his chest. His long hair was gone, cut when he had been thrown into this pit. The only thing they could not steal away from him was the unequalled beauty held in his stare. Yet, those who came to visit him, commented on how the fire and the spirit had disappeared from his hypnotic eyes. He supposed even his soul was not safe here. Right now, he was not safe anywhere. Maybe that is why they kept him locked up. Perhaps, they suspected that he was not the source but just another dumb mule. He had been a flight risk, but now his life might be at risk. He really didn’t know what to think anymore. He didn’t know who, outside of his close family and friends, to trust. The nightmare had started several years ago. It had been difficult to deal with the hours and the stress of the modeling industry. You had to be on all the time. You had to have a smile on your face twenty-four seven. If it had not been for the agents and the other models, he never would have touched the stuff. But there was an unspoken pact amongst the other models--men and women, boys and girls alike, as some were too young to be called adult. If you were to succeed in the business, you had to be willing to do anything in order to put yourself out there. Some even lowered themselves to sexual acts in order to stay where they wanted to be. That is something he swore he would never do. It worked most of the time. Yet, sometimes, when the timing was right and the encroacher had a great offer and a half-way decent appearance, he would accommodate them. It did not happen often and never with the same sex. That he would not abide. His mother, who had tried to protect him, never knew. If she would have halfway suspected, she would have made him quit the industry. The modeling industry was for the young and naive. It was a machine that was designed to pull the very soul from a young beautiful model. The machine would not care if it killed a model in the doing. It was the process. If a model was not strong enough to resist suicide or overdosing, they would be just a memory. That was what he feared was happening to him, though, in a very different way. The modeling world was composed of so many monsters that it was very difficult to protect yourself from all of them. Some very pretty monsters preyed on the innocent and won in the end. Other monsters just used force or threatening promises. In his case, it was a little bit of both. He could remember a couple of years back when a Russian model, not even 21, had been accused of suicide. Very ugly remarks were made about her being just another dumb beautiful body who would not be missed. That was what people thought of you when you made a living on the Cat Walk. They did not consider you as an intelligent, person capable of deep thought. Everyone who knew her knew that accusation to be a lie. Yet how do you fight a very powerful entity that has tentacles reaching from Paris to New York to South America and even Russia? How do you fight those whose souls are black and inhuman? You don’t. Money was the only blood that flowed in their veins and they would step on anyone threatening their blood banks--the young and innocent models. “Don’t worry, it will feel good and it will allow you to work like two men instead of one. You will earn so much money, you will wonder what to do with it. And it will make you feel good. You will be like superman.” That was what was told to him by another female model. She had been right. You flew through life. Your feet hardly touched the ground. Earn more money. Sure. He earned plenty of money for himself and for his family. He also made his agency very rich, too. The more he worked, the more they made. It was not hard to understand. The agency did not care how he maintained his looks, as long as he did. They owned him. The world owned him. But they would never reach his soul. That would forever and always belong to him; untouchable. Why would he think that they would care what happened to him once he was past his prime. But when you are wrapped up in the every day goings on, you forget about important issues like the future. He had, of course, been wise enough to widen his prospects with acting and dabbling in directing. Yet his foot was just wet, nothing more. He wanted so much more and had become impatient with that wanting. And when he was approached to do this thing that now defined him, he had not thought it through. At age 33, he was still considered unbelievably gorgeous, yet he knew the day would come when he would tire of it and want more, the day when the price to maintain his unbelievable physic would be too high. His dream was to act. To be someone people saw and took seriously. He had a mind. A great mind and untapped talent. He wanted to prove it to the rest of the world. And now, he lay here, world weary and completely destroyed by a decision that he had made in haste. By the time it came to decide, the decision had been made for him by people he did not know well enough to trust. God, how could he have done this thing? How could he have let down so many people? He caused such an uproar with one act, that to undo it would take years. So many years of hard work, gone-stolen in a moment due to a lack in judgement. All the sacrifice, all the long hours and missed family gatherings and now this. Now he was a stranger in his own life. He was missing his family terribly. And his friends, all those who had kept him grounded all of the years past, they were missing. He was missing. He was a living ghost in a world where he had reigned supreme. He missed going to the beach with them--pitching a tent and sitting around a fire and just enjoying life. He wanted to be able to laugh again. Laughter had once been his narcotic. His sense of humor was off-the-hook and he loved to laugh and make others laugh, too. He yearned for his youth, for times when the weight of the world rested on the backs of others and not his. He yearned to be free again. To taste the Mediterranean breeze and feel the night air lift his hair and blow against his muscular body. To be cleansed by the salt water. He longed for freedom, the freedom he so naively relinquished. If he had it all to do again, he never would have been so naive. He would have been more cautious and less trusting. He would have only surrounded himself with friends proven and true. He could berate himself every moment he spent awake, dwelling on what he could have done differently, but the fact of the matter was he had no options left. He had thrown them into the wind and the wind had blown it right back into his face, the smack having left a print that would last a lifetime. He just prayed that he would not be forsaken, forgotten and lost to time. He could not live through that. He could not survive it.

Written by Monique Marie

We won’t forsake you, EVER. You are in our hearts, minds and prayers every day. You have made the world fall in-love with you and your good heart. Know that we embrace you with our loving energy and send it to you every moment you are lost to us. To you, our friend, don’t give up and don’t give in---all of your faithful fans of the world. . .	And, my brother, God will never forsake you. You only have to ask Him to take your burdens from you and he will. It is that simple. I am not a religious person, yet I do know God will never let you down.

“Fallen Son of Greece” He who needs Compassion, Not Condemnation

As he lay on the hard cot, he tried to shake himself awake even though his eyes were wide open. His heart pounded erratically in his chest and it squeezed with an ache, such as he has never known. Even when he had lost loved ones to death, he had never felt such loss and loneliness. It’s as if he himself had lost his soul and he lived in limbo without it, not knowing if the next day his body would follow it into the blind depths of oblivion. Every moment of every single day, he wanted to whimper and weep for his losses, cry to the heavens and fates for their audacity to abandon him to his own devises. He was a man, a child of God, yet he felt like an outcast. He had chosen this path and he wanted to balk at the possible finality of it. He had entered a pact with the devil and lost. He was lost. As he lay here, he realized that this world that encompassed him now was so foreign to him that he trembled with an unspeakable rage and frustration. He could not move without permission. He could not bathe without onlookers. He could not shed tears without an audience. He could not be himself. God he missed human contact. He was a very affectionate person. With his family and friends. He missed making love with utter abandon, with no thought to the next moment. To just lay in the arms of another and inhale the scent of lovemaking. And now, the next moment only brought more questions and fear. He did not want to think about the future, yet how could he not? It was only human to seek the unknown. It was only human to hope and pray for a positive outcome. For how long would he be lost? Always he had known who he was even when sometimes the path of life carried him into parts unknown or parts that were fraught with danger. But he liked danger. He thrived on danger. At least controlled danger. When he controlled the aspects of the danger he partook, he felt somewhat at ease. Yet, somehow, his level-headedness and conservative ways had abandoned him as of late. Ok, he had been doing very stupid things for the past few years, and he had known it would not be without consequence. However, he had never thought his gold-lined life, would be drastically affected so soon. He had figured that he would die young. Yes, that was acceptable to him as long as he lived to see himself married and the father of beautiful children. His earnings would assure them all a great life. If he lived to middle age doing what he had to do now, then those he loved and held dear would reap the benefits. Especially his parents. They were his biggest supporters and loved him unconditionally. No matter what. So, now that he could earn unbelievable amounts of money legally, he was going to make certain that he would do so for a very long time to come. He never thought himself to be a selfish man. He saw that his money helped the poor and children in need. Coming from a strong family, he wanted to help those who could not help themselves. He had his moments when selfish urges overtook him. But he chalked it up to being human. He always told himself that he was just a man and as a man he was allowed to make mistakes. Hell, God banked on him screwing up every now and again. Isn’t that why they had confession? And, he never hurt anyone but himself. Yet in the doing, he continued to build his bank account. He continued to stand as a good role model for the young people of his country. Everyone loved him. How could they not? He was young and beautiful. He was a gift to his people. And he loved it. Most of the time. How could a man not love being loved. It feeds the soul and urges one to embrace all that people expect of one. And as the expectations grow, so too does the stress of maintaining oneself, preserving that which separates one from all the others. He was special. His eyes were the portals to a diverse world. They pulled people in and held on. Even though most only saw him in magazines or video clips, they believed they knew him. Hell, they believed they loved him. How could a man not enjoy some ounce of that? At least in the beginning. He stretched his athletic body whose muscles seemed to atrophy each day he spent locked up in this cage. His 6’2” frame boasted muscle with not an ounce of fat. Each striation could be seen. But he was by no means big. His body was perfection. They called him a Greek God. And, as he knew all too well, all gods have their weak-nesses. It was no wonder that men had gone crazy here. It was no wonder that mad-ness had overtaken their minds. A place like this could devour a man’s soul and sanity. It’s cold stone walls offered no solace, but a world of frigid abandon. Here you were lost and in time you were forgotten by most. Even one such as he. Millions claimed him. Millions loved him. Yet in time, the only ones who would remember him were his family and perhaps a few really close friends. All others would forget he ever existed. And that was one of the things that frightened him so much. That and the fact that he would lose his best years to a place where lost souls were born every day. Each day and into the night his mind replayed the events that landed him here. Truth be told he had known somewhere deep in his core that he would not get away with it. He had been raised better than that. He had been taught better than that. Yet the disease had taken hold. It had pushed him to do things that he knew he shouldn’t do. In the end, he betrayed everything that he had been raised to be. In the end, he had betrayed all those he loved and who loved him. In the end, he had betrayed himself. Worst of all he had betrayed his parents. The hardest thing was to look into his mother’s beautiful eyes and see the disappointment and fear there. He had done that to her. He had repaid all of her kindness and love with betrayal and stupidity. How do you apologize for that? There are no words that can measure up. As they say ‘actions speak louder than words’. And his actions had revealed a naive, selfish act whose ramifications could prove detrimental to the rest of his life. Instead of the ‘Son of Greece’ he would be the ‘lost son’. Would his country abandon him? Would it forget everything he had done that was good and kind? Would it forget that he was still young and had made a terrible mistake? One huge, terrible mistake. Would they make an example out of him? Would his country turn its back on him when he needed it the most. He was broken and needed understanding and not condemnation. He needed to be taken in and revitalized. He needed people to understand a world that they would never touch nor fully comprehend, his world. He needed his people, who had adored him so, to embrace him with love and compassion. He did not need to be judged over and over again. His self-recrimination was enough for the entire world. His charmed life had turned into a living nightmare. He could blame it on the industry. One hundred and fifty thousand percent, he could blame the industry. Yet his actions were his own. And even though there were threats made to compel him to follow through, he made the ultimate choice to commit to the action that landed him here. It was surreal. Lying in the dark, with no plush accommodations, he shivered. His skin crawled and his mind screamed its denial. He tried to rewrite the script that had turned his life to shit. He tried to wake himself up in the moment when he had been so damned stupid. Tears filled his eyes. His gorgeous green/blue eyes that separated him from all others. His nose became stuffed as his heart broke. Grabbing the hard pillow, he screamed into it. All of his pent up rage and frustration was muffled by the pillow. He didn’t want any of the guards to hear him. He didn’t want any of them to talk about how low he had fallen. The least he could offer his family was to suffer alone and as quietly as possible. His throat ached and his body burned with a craving so raw it singed his very veins. The disease was making itself known. The doctors said it would be hard. They offered him medication to ease the pain and to reduce his urges. Yet, he wanted to fight his demons in his own way. He wanted to tell those demons to go fuck themselves. The demons had controlled him long enough. They had made his life hell. So, he refused any medication, though he met with his psychiatrist regularly. Normally, he wasn’t one to discuss his feelings openly with anyone. He held things in and expected to maintain an appearance of perfection as the public had always expected. However, that is what had gotten him here, he suspected. So, he had decided to abandon silence and speak his mind. And it was mandatory that he see the good doctor. To play the game was the best for everyone. God, why did it have to hurt so God-damned bad. Sweat seeped from every pore in his body, yet he shook from a frigidness that burned in his core. Gods weren’t suppose to be brought down so damned low. He groaned then cried as a cramp ripped through his stomach. Curling up into a ball, he held his middle and rocked like a child. He just wanted to sleep. That’s all he did lately. Sleep and eat. He wanted to work his body to feel a natural burn to his muscles, but he didn’t have the energy. The disease stole that from him too. The disease, it asked so much of him. It’s toll was so high that now when faced with it, he wanted to run very far, very fast from it. How could he have done this to himself? Why would he inflict so much suffering on himself just to prolong an inevitable outcome? He was smart enough to know that his end would be tragic if he continued on the way he had been going. All of his veins were strained, begging for release. Begging him for the euphoria and energy he had maintained for years. All he could do was sob. The pain was so excruciating that he just wanted to die. He prayed to God to take him. He told God that he was not worthy of His ear, yet he begged Him to end his suffering. To take away the pain and the embarrassment of what he had done. The sorrow was like a weight pulling at his heart. The sorrow was all enveloping like an abyss of dark water that gave no quarter and bade him to just inhale  The sorrow also begged for something. It begged for him to end it all. It would be so much easier that way. He would not have to face the public. He would never need to face his mother again. He would be just another soul lost to the industry and the monsters that preyed on the innocent. But he could not do that to his beloved mother. She had made him promise that no matter how bad it got, no matter how horrible he felt, he would not hurt himself. Curse the gods, he had made that promise. Above all things, he would never intentionally cause her more pain than he already had. That would be a disgrace. But she had known. She had understood before he had that it would come to that decision. In her wisdom, she had purposely bound him to this life. Deep down, he wished she would just let him go. But that was not to be. She had bound him with invisible shackles to this world. She had bound him to her with her unwavering love. A mother’s love. He had done what he had done to make his body perfect and to be able to use his body to get ahead in a fast-paced world where co-workers were devoured daily. And now, it was falling apart on him. Everything that he had built was crumbling around his feet. He had worked so damn hard and now it was gone. Would he ever get it back? Didn’t the authorities realize that he was not the source. He had been used and not in a good way. Yet, if he told, life could get a whole lot more dangerous. He didn’t really know those who had approached him. Grabbing his short hair, he pulled his throbbing head into his chest. His long hair was gone, cut when he had been thrown into this pit. The only thing they could not steal away from him was the unequalled beauty held in his stare. Yet, those who came to visit him, commented on how the fire and the spirit had disappeared from his hypnotic eyes. He supposed even his soul was not safe here. Right now, he was not safe anywhere. Maybe that is why they kept him locked up. Perhaps, they suspected that he was not the source but just another dumb mule. He had been a flight risk, but now his life might be at risk. He really didn’t know what to think anymore. He didn’t know who, outside of his close family and friends, to trust. The nightmare had started several years ago. It had been difficult to deal with the hours and the stress of the modeling industry. You had to be on all the time. You had to have a smile on your face twenty-four seven. If it had not been for the agents and the other models, he never would have touched the stuff. But there was an unspoken pact amongst the other models--men and women, boys and girls alike, as some were too young to be called adult. If you were to succeed in the business, you had to be willing to do anything in order to put yourself out there. Some even lowered themselves to sexual acts in order to stay where they wanted to be. That is something he swore he would never do. It worked most of the time. Yet, sometimes, when the timing was right and the encroacher had a great offer and a half-way decent appearance, he would accommodate them. It did not happen often and never with the same sex. That he would not abide. His mother, who had tried to protect him, never knew. If she would have halfway suspected, she would have made him quit the industry. The modeling industry was for the young and naive. It was a machine that was designed to pull the very soul from a young beautiful model. The machine would not care if it killed a model in the doing. It was the process. If a model was not strong enough to resist suicide or overdosing, they would be just a memory. That was what he feared was happening to him, though, in a very different way. The modeling world was composed of so many monsters that it was very difficult to protect yourself from all of them. Some very pretty monsters preyed on the innocent and won in the end. Other monsters just used force or threatening promises. In his case, it was a little bit of both. He could remember a couple of years back when a Russian model, not even 21, had been accused of suicide. Very ugly remarks were made about her being just another dumb beautiful body who would not be missed. That was what people thought of you when you made a living on the Cat Walk. They did not consider you as an intelligent, person capable of deep thought. Everyone who knew her knew that accusation to be a lie. Yet how do you fight a very powerful entity that has tentacles reaching from Paris to New York to South America and even Russia? How do you fight those whose souls are black and inhuman? You don’t. Money was the only blood that flowed in their veins and they would step on anyone threatening their blood banks--the young and innocent models. “Don’t worry, it will feel good and it will allow you to work like two men instead of one. You will earn so much money, you will wonder what to do with it. And it will make you feel good. You will be like superman.” That was what was told to him by another female model. She had been right. You flew through life. Your feet hardly touched the ground. Earn more money. Sure. He earned plenty of money for himself and for his family. He also made his agency very rich, too. The more he worked, the more they made. It was not hard to understand. The agency did not care how he maintained his looks, as long as he did. They owned him. The world owned him. But they would never reach his soul. That would forever and always belong to him; untouchable. Why would he think that they would care what happened to him once he was past his prime. But when you are wrapped up in the every day goings on, you forget about important issues like the future. He had, of course, been wise enough to widen his prospects with acting and dabbling in directing. Yet his foot was just wet, nothing more. He wanted so much more and had become impatient with that wanting. And when he was approached to do this thing that now defined him, he had not thought it through. At age 33, he was still considered unbelievably gorgeous, yet he knew the day would come when he would tire of it and want more, the day when the price to maintain his unbelievable physic would be too high. His dream was to act. To be someone people saw and took seriously. He had a mind. A great mind and untapped talent. He wanted to prove it to the rest of the world. And now, he lay here, world weary and completely destroyed by a decision that he had made in haste. By the time it came to decide, the decision had been made for him by people he did not know well enough to trust. God, how could he have done this thing? How could he have let down so many people? He caused such an uproar with one act, that to undo it would take years. So many years of hard work, gone-stolen in a moment due to a lack in judgement. All the sacrifice, all the long hours and missed family gatherings and now this. Now he was a stranger in his own life. He was missing his family terribly. And his friends, all those who had kept him grounded all of the years past, they were missing. He was missing. He was a living ghost in a world where he had reigned supreme. He missed going to the beach with them--pitching a tent and sitting around a fire and just enjoying life. He wanted to be able to laugh again. Laughter had once been his narcotic. His sense of humor was off-the-hook and he loved to laugh and make others laugh, too. He yearned for his youth, for times when the weight of the world rested on the backs of others and not his. He yearned to be free again. To taste the Mediterranean breeze and feel the night air lift his hair and blow against his muscular body. To be cleansed by the salt water. He longed for freedom, the freedom he so naively relinquished. If he had it all to do again, he never would have been so naive. He would have been more cautious and less trusting. He would have only surrounded himself with friends proven and true. He could berate himself every moment he spent awake, dwelling on what he could have done differently, but the fact of the matter was he had no options left. He had thrown them into the wind and the wind had blown it right back into his face, the smack having left a print that would last a lifetime. He just prayed that he would not be forsaken, forgotten and lost to time. He could not live through that. He could not survive it.

Written by Monique Marie

We won’t forsake you, EVER. You are in our hearts, minds and prayers every day. You have made the world fall in-love with you and your good heart. Know that we embrace you with our loving energy and send it to you every moment you are lost to us. To you, our friend, don’t give up and don’t give in---all of your faithful fans of the world. . .	And, my brother, God will never forsake you. You only have to ask Him to take your burdens from you and he will. It is that simple. I am not a religious person, yet I do know God will never let you down. &mdash;64.253.15.248 (talk) 13:03, 3 June 2010 (UTC)