devoted alter-ego ·
27 June 04

He continually thinks.

He is unable to sleep, trying to go over it again – trying to fathom some form of sense out of the chaos unlocking within in his mind.

The gradual fall into the dark, hollowed well – deep, black and what seems endless. He touches the inner rim of the well, and touches the moist, wet mould growing. Raising his hand, he realises this is the last time he will be able to see this. Once he falls, once the darkness envelopes him like a parent covering the eyes of a child in an embrace, it is over.

He will feel, but he will not see what he feels, he will not understand what he feels. Be it good or bad, for what difference lies in either, when you cannot sense what it is you touch – you cannot see what you touch.

What is bad news anyway? There is never a good time for bad news, that in itself would be an oxymoron – a contradiction in terms, much like dull brightness. The example is crude, but provides ample sense in how “the good time for bad news” should be considered.

You are damned for speaking how you feel; damned for thinking how you feel; damned for saying something or damned for not saying anything, and being damned every goddam fucking way.

Guilt – it grows, it pounds, and it waits on the tree branch – awaiting its victim, hunting the prey, smelling the swelling of self-worth disintegrating into thin air. He lives and thrives on the emotional turmoil, the need to punish oneself in order to justify a means to an end. In order to purify the soul of all that is unholy, all that has been damned upon you.

The cold has gone; what’s left are the ashes of what is hope.

So he thinks, and he wonders, what could he have done different. What could he have said? Why was it so cold, so bitterly cold?

The feeling, the distance, the raw emptiness within the corridor. Seeing his breath solidify into a crystal and collapse before him. The brightness in the corridor grew, but it only emphasised the coldness, the light tones of blue, forced against dark blue shades of emptiness.

The corridor has defecated itself in its own bitterness, freezing itself, closing itself from all feeling. The corridor is no longer the place for the heart; it no longer welcomes the warmth with open arms. It refuses to be broken, it refuses anything and everything.

Where does he go from here? He wraps himself up in hope, in peace, in compromise. The blankets of belief and faith consume his body like fire; warmth comes with feeling, with realisation and sadness. The cold has gone; what’s left are the ashes of what is hope. Let it rise from its ashes, to bring again belief, faith, friendship.

He sees the road as a lonely journey – he carries what little he has with him: a lighter, tobacco, skins and water which he carries in a bag on his back. He walks along the lonely road, admiring the death of the valley he walks within.

The predators awake, the prey disperse; he is but a target for nothing, and a target for everything. Seen by all, approached by none. He rolls up a smoke, and places it in his mouth, lighting it he turns to the setting sun, “As always….we know how it goes from here”.