Today is one of those days when I have no hope for the future.
One of those days when I sit here, idle, imagining the relief it would be to stop watching life pass me by a minute at a time — 9:24. 9:25. A minute lost; another one. Then will pass another, until the end of my life is upon us and all I have to show for my existence is a whole lot of nothing.
And what is it I’m trying to achieve anyway? Fame? Fortune? Well, being able to eat every day would be a top goal, as is keeping a roof over our head. The Rational One in me accepts these as worthwhile goals, but the Dreamer? The Dreamer rejects this despicable normalcy. The Dreamer can’t breathe when it’s forced to think of anything else but the thoughts its own mind makes.
Today, the mind makes no thoughts. It breathes and yearns and the body denies. The body demands its own thoughts. And the Dreamer can’t dream, can’t escape, sits here trapped within the walls of Itself. The Dreamer cries and screams and peels itself layer by layer, and still it fails to shed the blanket of despair. What are we trying to achieve? What is it we can achieve at all if the Self refuses to cooperate among Itself?
All that lies bare is nothing.
Nothing but a semblance of something, scraped together from the pulsing mucus of a mind grown dim by disuse. I speak but am not really here. We struggle with the howling chant of keys illuminated in the dark. Tears grow thick and bleed through our veins.
Another day in Paradise, secluded, seeking what cannot be found, praying for what cannot be given. In despair there is no tomorrow, no yesterday, and right now is but an illusion drenched in tar. Dreamless fingers cannot reach; broken eyes cannot flit free. The Dreamer exists in purgatory and awaits awakening —
Fire, fire, burning ire;
Glacial heat upon desire;
What is it the Dreamer wishes to achieve?
The destruction of normalcy.
There is neither heat nor hope upon the path most treaded. The winding road, all brambles and coals, is the hardest path of all; it demands uncertainty and fear and the unyielding trust one gains when all the easy paths have proven impossible to walk. Cuts and scars paint a new landscape as blood fills the sun. I, we, all of us within — a single hive of light and dark and things that go bump at the very precipice of Life. Once our face ripped and skinned and the seen truth but a discarded memory, all that remains is
In hatred do we find hope
In darkness do we find strength
Within heat and rage lie the seeds of tomorrow
Now is one of those days when I have no hope for the future: I have certainty. The flames may grow dim when the ashes of reality storm past, but within Death I find hope and strength, for upon burned fields far greater things will grow.
And upon burned fields they will grow, the flowers of eternity, and the cycle of rebirth shall be complete.