…some days are dark; dreams grow distant like those long afternoon shadows that stretch off towards vanishing horizons like feathered violets in your eyes and there, intangible and coiled in the fading light, lurk invisible as poisoned serpents of self-doubt that eventually visit us all, in troubled sleep or as a metallic-taste of dreaming awake and flaring neon or strobing car headlights that search our souls for traces of meaning and just as do we.
There is such a sweet melancholy addiction and overwhelming sense of intoxicating futility in sorrow and I am afraid that at times I am completely lost in it (I think you will understand); not because regret and loneliness are any kind of desirable emotional frame of reference and interpretive filter through which to understand myself or the world but, rather, because there is some irreducible hollow and purposeless void at the heart of existence that feels so much more like sadness than joy; even if it is neither of these.
When we catch glimpses of this, the logical emptiness that underlies all things it comes to us as a slap in the face and cathartic inhalation of grief. It is nothing more or less that an enigmatic void from which all life and light emerges but which to our superficial psychological desires feels like so much death and darkness. See just how enthusiastically people embellish their worlds with so much neon, noise and selfish bluster; these are all just masks upon the deep, misdirection from a darkness at our core. It is not sadness, it is an eternity within; it is not loss, it is the gift of infinity.
The world as words and ideas or experience is really only – at this level of non-binary logic – a metaphor for itself and it is in our attachment to these illusory existential anchors that we can never actually acquire, we only ever find a suffocating freedom of choice and self-doubt. Self is the core problem here.