the revolving door of despair

Hello. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken. It’s been a while since I’ve had anything to say. I hope you’ve been well. Yes, thanks—I’m terrible. No, not a single tear. No, not too many nightmares. Well, that’s not entirely true… maybe just a few.

I must admit to being rather down and out. After visiting the clinic for a two hour wait, I’ve walked out with not only my chest pains still intact, but also a rather terrible cold. It again may very well be my fourth inflection with a virus this year. It’s scary how sensitive I am. I am seeing a docter this weekend for a series of tests. Everything should be fine, just cut me some slack. That’s what happens when you take time to consider yourself amongst those in the outside world. No matter how much you wash your hands or use sanitizer, you’re just bound to pick something up. Everything is out to get you. But don’t worry about me though, I’ll be fine.

I think.

The following may be ironic, but watching someone you once knew lose their mind from a distance is somewhat sad, especially if you considered yourself friends at a time in your lives. Listening to the anecdotes of others regarding their slide into oblivion is both depressing and telling in a aching sort of self-awareness trip. And though you’ve lost all contact with them, you hope that some of the information that has reached you is accurate, such as telling of gainful stability. To discover that such information is, in fact, false, only makes it more apparent that professional help is required, and all you can do is hope that it is sought sooner than later.

I’ve been confused since I can remember. In the shadows I know all too well what urges most forth into the world. I know that solace is a distant dream. I want you to know that I’m not asking you for anything. I want you to know that I never would. I just want you to be aware of the way I’m trying to move from one level of despair to another… in the hopes of one day being free of despair that makes me sick.

Everyone in all their own textures of youthful, hopeful hearts. Waging a war since they can remember. I yearn for weeks spent in paradise so that I can replenish my soul, if there’s any soul left intact. With bright, yet guarded smiles I’m in desperate need of replenishment, sustenance for what is condemned to continue to wage a war within, and without. On my way through a rippling crowd towards solitude, so far away from that which is known to me, I’m sometimes drawn to another, if only to say hello. So we come over and join each other. Excited now and eager to speak and to be free, to laugh and to share stories.

Although sometimes I don’t say much. I haven’t had much to say in quite a while. I listen. The handler of the stick that stems by the fire, seems, through articulation, through eyes, to be an intelligent, albeit undereducated but young. Everyone has a story.

Enter darkness into the gentle glow of light that pervade us. Rise, what lies beneath the masks we wear. They tell me of their delinquent, absent mother or father… of the preacher that molested them without end, tell me of the solace you thought you found in drugs.

We speak of dragons, green fairies, prohibition, expansionism, deserts, demons, and even of redemption. Do you pity us? Do you know us, at all? Perhaps you believe yourself to be a redeemer? Perhaps a judge? Sometimes the world is so cold. Sometimes the momentum of life and adversity seems so fast… like these legs could never keep up, through the dross and the ice in peoples’ hearts. I’ve felt that way. The young one with whom I spoke used to feel that way, too. At a certain point in life, the shadow had descended upon them until it was all they knew… all they felt.

The demons have shown me a couple of stray scars. Recounting to me the descent into oblivion. At times, our artistry will stir us around, and to those, there is still the trace of a smile on both our lips, still the pretense of an amusing evening away from the world, but clearly, we are no longer a couple of strangers exchanging idle banter. Tell me. About the one night you put a loaded gun to your head and pulled the trigger. So low, so forgotten, to even remember to load the chamber a round, and so lived. The burden of living, when the only thing one knows is destruction.

Demons and shadows flutter all around our heads, but they remain outside, uninvited in. Someone in the corner is whispering that I am nothing more than manifestations of the scourge of the planet. Someone in the darkness is pronouncing curses. I will return to the desert. I will return to the war. In this state of relative silence there’s freedom as I have become so joyously aware of what progress I’ve made in life. I’m doing well. I have high hopes for this young blood, who may even go to university. With found voice, we found legs to stand up. To overcome negligence and incompetence. To save lives. To bring hope just a bit closer to reality.

I know you don’t want to hear from me. I know our relationship is strained, to say the least. But I thought you’d like to know that there are still some shadows that lament the absence of light. Some times. That feeling for the texture of a solace you can touch. I thought you’d like to know that there is a war going on within every sorry son and daughter in this dominion. Don’t look now, but unless some of these people begin to win some of these inner wars, there can never be any hope to vanquish the plague of war in the world. Stretched so thin across cruel distance… deserts of our own making, the struggle continues. We murmur feeble incantations and perform second-rate feints to colour. The masks of addiction we use to obscure our frailty, our humanity.

I hope I don’t offend when I tell you that our frailty is our humanity, and that the latter shall come to be immeasurable strength, a brighter light than we’ve yet seen, by means of the little victories of people like you or me. Where ever your shadow may linger, you must bear in mind, despite your tendency to dismiss, and to judge, that so too must there be light.