There are times, furthermore, when I need a little compassion, for those days when I write something like the paragraphs below, which in turn flow from feelings that tend to lower the fun meter of life. Those days which I refuse to ignore, but which I rather take to myself as rich in some hidden wisdom. One hopes, in any case, and one writes. Perhaps other readers may take comfort in knowing that the dark side hits everyone from time to time:
And so days pass, and the knotted stomach weaves a rope that the snake of anxiety will climb up and up, curving from side to side to the seductive strains of hypnotic hidden memories, up and up to the murky darkness of the mind, there to settle in a soft grey fold of tissue and wait. No rush. No limbs. No light necessary. No yes or no.
What happens in the dark recesses, stays in the dark recesses. It's the unwritten code of the soul, protection of the fragile essence that is each person, guarded by the immortal and muscled security spirit that never sleeps on the job. A holy champion that hopes to return its charge unsullied to the gauzy serenity of the heavens. Don't worry. It's alright. You're alright. Focus on the colours of the inner eye. Love conquers all, - not the ego-serving emotion that the world mistakes for love,- but the hushed mission performed mutely, obeying timeless laws.
"My life is good, you old bag". It's a line from a very funny Randy Newman song, a smart-ass reply to a mean and miserable teacher of his child, representing the prevailing and ever-present snobs of the world, ready to claim superiority over your pitiful life and lifestyle. It's a reply to that internalized nasty voice too, the voice that won't let you be, the lie you swallowed at some point. It's a flippant and flawed emulation of the spiritual guardian, but it gives voice to an attitude and fight you have to assume into the woven rope of anxiety that would be your spine.
Rain falls, drops slither down a piece of tent screening, fabric bent in loose folds that move slightly in a breeze, weeping onto the wooden floor. The morning quiet is unbroken by jays or sirens or weekend do-it-yourself carpenters. Life having a lie-in.
One wonders at the labyrinth that becomes a life; the different paths chosen of free will, that bring us to a certain place where we are left simply standing in emptiness. The people and efforts and victories we have met are all there, strung on ribbons, encased in pretty-coloured glass balls that light up at night. The joys and sorrows and little walks in the park, the laughs, they're not gone, but they are not relevant somehow to the decisions that you know are now necessary. They tinkle in the wind, make a delicate, distracting sound; they can give you comfort. But they cannot lead you in any meaningful way. So you wait. No rush. No limbs. No necessary light. No yes or no.