an angel of light and death
I am here again. I guess the Reaper has not yet come. Or better yet, Lady Death.
I think I like the latter characterisation. It is a bitter sweetness I would prefer to the harsh image of flames and eternal suffering. Perhaps there is no such place. Perhaps the only hell that exists is Earth itself. To never be reborn in this place is a good thing. Who wants to be reborn in Hell? Perhaps those who come with a separate notion of Hell only speak so because they know that most people in Hell don’t think of their dwelling as Hell. Maybe the mystics had to coin Hell so that those who do not understand how fucking messed up their world is can at least have a first step towards the potential truth. The potential truth that there is only Heaven and Hell. And we live in the latter. How is it that it looks like a paradise I might address in a future post, that is, if I am still alive to give you readers a nut-job’s ravings.
I woke up this morning in the wee hours of the morning. To the memory of her, my first crush, who I lost my heart too. I have never had another crush except her (Too dramatic ain’t it? My cliche-o-meter is hitting its peak). Whenever her memory alights on me, the pangs begin. My chest tightens. My breathing becomes erratic. My body needs to curl up. The covers of my bed are oily, which doesn’t help (really need to wash them, for goodness sake). My heart races till it hurts. My thinking is arrested, and the mental spiral comes into full swing.
Whenever her memory alights on me, feelings of both longing and death arrive at my door, and I am so used to opening that door. Both love and darkness rush in through the frame, the frame of my heart’s door. Wanting to hold her. Kiss her wonderful lips. Plan my nose in her soft shoulder. A deep longing to linger in her embrace. But the day-mare very quickly turns into a nightmare. The reality of her absence grips me like death. And so I want death. I am too scared of pain to want to kill myself, let along let someone else kill me. The stray thought that enters says that you can die a painless death with the modern equipment of our age. No, I don’t want that either. For death is not what I seek, but a sense of relief. A touch of freedom. How can I ask for healing when it is such an expensive fantasy? Psychologists, counsellors, and therapists are all fellow humans, but they can’t help a dirt-poor fellow human because Money is God. No, I ask not for healing, but for band-aids. That is all I need to last for another day. Masturbation is one such band-aid. Gaming is another. Watching the telly on my lappie is another. Just another day. Just to get by.
It’s like I am caught between Paradise and Hades. There would be many voices that call what I have Paradise. But it certainly doesn’t feel like it. A few hours of each of the band-aids, each of these quick-fixes, gets old pretty quickly.
The biggest kick I am getting out of each day, to keep my sorry ass moving in this fucking rat-race (I have already outed myself, but the old spirits would have me keep going), is to live transparently. To live full of shame, and yet shamelessly. To live full and yet to be empty. The Middle may not seem the best, but it’s better than what I had in the past.
It feels like Paradise at most times. But ever so often – especially in the vicinity of people – Hades raises its hoary head.
My mind has blanked. Sayonara for now.