The darkness between

I have seen the pain. I have known it. Known its insides.

Once known, the pain can never be unknown nor resolved. It can only be shuffled into more obscure and shadowed corners of your mind, but here, the pain lingers in the dark and hence, becomes more frightening and fearsome for its foretold promises of surprise and frightened eruptions of anticipation.

I saw a beggar,
Leaning on his wooden crutch
He said to me
“You must not ask for so much.”

And a pretty woman
Leaning in her darkened door
She cried to me
“Hey, why not ask for more?”

-Leonard Cohen, Bird On A Wire

The space between the two points of agony is laden with a murky quagmire of uneasy ennui. Scuttling back and forth between the two polarized ends of unjoyous existence. I lapse in and out of a dim surreal life that embraces and dispels but never grasps. I bounce like a ball, thriving and dying in worlds apart but none I can ever call Life.

Promises await and doom retorts. Disaster promises pain but pain expunges sorrow for it is so swift and vivid that I cannot keep an eye on its gruesome, torrid blot on my sanity.

The pain was swift and sure, but she offered solace and a cushion-like sanctuary which I sank into, unmesmerized by my perverse intrigue, releasing cares as I sank deeper and the pain was an astronomically distant glimmer of bleakness. The cushion embrace whispered sweet, warm air in my ear but just then the cacophonous foghorn of inevitable deaths of forlorn voyages tore into my skull like a dagger impaling a soul.

Release me now, I cried at the night.

Release my tethered remnants, I cried in her night sky orbs.

Release me.

Release me from the pendulum promises of greater worlds and lesser hells.

The point between is death. Each bookend is the darting illusion of life. We escape death by fooling ourselves the two opposing ends of life are distracting enough to warrant our lascivious attention. We relish them as gifts but they are troublesome, and to the clear perspective, entirely unworthy of our plaintive efforts. Distraction is our escape; devotion is our death.