I didn’t think it could hurt this much.
That the pain, being something black and unfit for life, would actually warp itself into a black hole inside my chest, and stem outward in leaves and coiling branches to choke all things outside of it that had a turn of color, a patina of hatred, cast from my mind, and my senses.
All films, all art, all thought stemmed from and created him.
Here was a man who was conscious. All human beings being philosophers, whether they recognize it or not, here was a man who was conscious of being human. All else are silent sleepwalkers, and I alone am left, with no voice, and no sunlight, in a waking nightmare.
I keep nudging the person next to me – “Are you seeing this? What do you think?” – but they remain unseeing, and I know not to wake them.
I have to pray to address the violence that lies dormant, in seed form, in my chest. This is how deep the hatred stems; it lies coiled like the snake it is, ready to snap at the slightest leaf tremble on the ground, at the slightest infraction and invocation from a dead thing with no string to the seed.
This is the thing to get through, when I thought I was already through.
This is the varnish to remove, the stain left over from the polish, when the polish has not been perfectly lifted; this is what to be wary of, when it seemed it couldn’t creep up any further, when it seemed it had been melted away by the sunlight.
This is the danger I present to the world. This is the darkness that is unfit to be cleaned by the sunlight. This is the dangling deadly fruit that will hit the ground with a silent thud, and will be felt only by my hands, my feet, my skin. This is the poison that settles and swirls at the bottom of the cup, after it’s been presumed to have been swallowed down; the trace elements stuck to the imperfections in the cup and upon each refill of liquid, I drink it down, again, and again. This is the residue that keeps on giving.
I have to pray for the protection of my neighbor, as I know as God knows that I am already broken, or that I will be soon, and the stillness I am capable of is the only thing saving us both.
This is the precipice I didn’t plan to reach, because I was not informed it existed. This is the vantage point I didn’t plan for. This is the sight I didn’t think I could see. This is what I didn’t know I didn’t know; what I never could have planned for; this is the unknown of which I need protection from.
I feel that I am being pulled to these exact corners of life not by my own will nor desire, but by something, who knows as well as I do how unnecessary all of it is, the pulling of me, the dragging of me, to bring me, what? Closer to a perspective, closer to a prayer that will bring me closer to,…what? To the great Something? So much unnecessary dragging; I see right through the strings and I am not impressed nor convinced.
And the hatred begins, again.
I wish I had fallen asleep earlier. Now that I need to, I am unable.
I wish that there were a book I could write, and burn into the words all sadness, all hatred of life, all longing, all burning tears so that its very presence would have a weight, a gravity, that would draw me to it, in the next life; draw me to this book on a shelf, in a distant or near bookstore, and I would remember as from a faint whisper: “here is the thing you must do to save him”, and I would know, I would be so pulled as to seek it in advance, it carrying all weight from my life and my love, the entirety of my love, to protect me from making the same mistake again, in another life. But the world will end with a fire, and a crash, and all evidence that permits us newness and betterness in the next life will burn with it, and I will make the same mistake again, and again, and again.
This is why the hatred begins.
This is the vantage point I am pulled to, and not above. This is where the line is drawn. This is where the thrashing begins.
This is where I wait for them to fall asleep, because in their stillness, they are protected. In their silence, when they do not even know not to reach me, they are saved. This is the line at which the blackness in me reaches through curling smoke-strands to fade away into the darkness, and to never reach, with open hands. This is where the smoke-curls end.
This is why the noise is always brighter in the night.
To call the sleepwalkers, to bathe their clothed eyes in artificial light. This is where the futility begins. This is where the strings collide.
This is where the cavity begins; this is where the picking, the stabbing, the pointing and whispering begins; this is where the abcess is formed and this is how the blood is drawn. This is where it pools; where it is congealed; and this is where the sleeping wound is awakened once more.
This is where the abcess begins.
This is where the tying-in of metaphor, like black velvet threads of ribbon, is formed. This is where ghost becomes ghost, and where noise is absorbed into the wall, from one slant. This is where the likeness of beauty is deceased, where it slides down to the floor in a crumpled, forgettable heap. This is where the ocean floor metes the wooden floor; and where the sound waves crash upon the door, and in the hallway, all passengers floating through, shuffle past, with no awareness more.