The very depth of the blackness which envelopes me in my darkest dreams is, at the end of all things, a twisted extolment of the very essence of the cosmos. For what is more resplendent than that thing which remains beside you at the last, through such a darkness implacable, that immutable truth which shelters the dwindling fire of life in your heart within a garrison of hope – a desperate faith that a realm in which such things exist must inexorably act a sanctuary to things as commensurately beatific. For such a sublimity transcends the very concept of space and time; the veracity of its purity holds irrespective of distance, language, perception, sense or understanding – it exists around us and within us, as it did before we came to be and as it shall until the last of us draws our final breath. It is the closest thing to that existential parable which men call God, an ultimate truth, an irrevocable assurance that all we see and touch and feel and taste and do is not for naught but our own distraction from the indifferent abyss in which we find ourselves, but rather that those things which move us forward and propel us through those blackest of nightmares are not themselves a human construction but something altogether different, separate, celestial. Our perception, our ability to experience its wonder is merely a privilege; for there it does and shall remain, around and within us, whether we might feel it or touch it or know it or not it abides, steady like the stalwart hand of God presiding over the majesty of creation until the end of time and beyond, until the last breath is drawn, until the love which cradles me each night dies alongside all that we call beautiful.
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I’m afraid of being nothing, and I am afraid of becoming nothing. I am afraid of living blandly or without purpose; but I am also, at times, afraid of life itself. I think about all of the pain that is out there to be experienced in this vast world, and I think about how the odds would have me certain to experience the worst of it at some point, and at least some type of it for the rest of my life. I think of this, and I sink into the bench on which I sit. I could stay here for the rest of my life, never experience anything – no pain, no joy, no success, no defeat – I could sit here and just be. Just exist, simply, in this moment, in this spot; and never carry the burdens of being human, the burdens of emotions like love, hate, fear, loss, and pain – I could experience nothing but the pure feeling of resignation. It is so tempting.
But then…there is the question. Is that life? Is that being human? Is it even possible to just exist? Is not the absolute abandonment of everything, the supreme resignation of all sense of life, purpose, duty and feeling – the very opposite of existence? Of existing?
I think about this…and it saddens me. It depresses me. I am tempted, as always, as I say, to lay down and die. But I can not – will not – allow myself to do that. I can accept life itself as meaningless, as I am apt to do from time to time during my frequent ruminations on the subject; but I refuse to let it become nothing. Meaningless though it may be, it is still something. It still happens, and I can create meaning for myself within the context of my own life – and though that meaning may exist for no one but myself, and will therefore disappear when I die – I can at least say that it was there, for me, when I lived.
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A tone of infinite sadness
A pitch of fervent joy
A solemn beat of anger
Drums against the will
A lyric sung by angels
A devil’s rhythmic rhyme
And all that goes unspoken
The soul will know in time
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There is something uncannily beautiful about being gripped in the throes of unwavering depression. There is a certain point, swift on the approach and rarely foreshadowed, where all sorrow ceases and is replaced by an otherworldly calm. An indescribable junction – a standoff of the mind and soul in which one must bend to the will of the other, fighting for control of the fragile puppet they inhabit. The result is a serenity beyond definition, in which all emotion is drained from the body, which in the absence of thought and feeling is left free to bask in the utter beauty of the present moment. This tranquility is something I have sought for a long, long time to master willingly. Yet I have rarely succeeded in doing so. Perhaps this is why I seem to conspire to keep myself in pain – hoping that once more I can reach that point, so overcome by a fierce and agonizing torment too horrific to be named or chronicled in exposition that the sheer depth of its intensity overpowers the very mind that feels such things, short-circuiting the perpetrating neurons and signals and synapses and leaving my body and soul free, if only for a moment, to enjoy the forgotten wonder of life, and the true sublimity and magnificence of the universe in which we exist.
