Sunday, September 08, 2013

Deja Vu Times Two

I wrote the piece below in April of 1995.  I am posting it today because it still defines my existence.  The writing is about how it is so hard to be hopeful because there is always something to strip me of that comfort.

I concede today I choose to live my days clouded with negativity, but Therapist does not understand why I refuse to give in to the fallacy of hope and positive thinking.  I’ve been in places before where I felt hopeful, optimistic, and encouraged, but I am ALWAYS, sooner or later, brought back to where I was born: into negativity, failure, and the drive to die.  The roller coaster ride takes too much out of me, and I need to remain where I am safest: dead.  I refuse to play the silly game of pretending I can handle life and then plummeting into misery when I am proven wrong.  It’s for my own protection.  It was back in 1995, and it still is today.

Drops of salt water are
Purged from shallow, dim sockets
Where the windows of life have closed
Their grave blinds and solemn curtains.

The myth of happiness is exposed,
Rotted, decayed, corroded:
Infested with maggots of agony surfeiting and gorging
On the generous failures of its host.

The charade of myself:
Successful, intelligent, creative
Crumbles, disintegrates, putrefies
Underneath brutal microscopic inspection.

The illusion of hope, the facade of faith,
Beckons and pleads for my desolated soul to trust,
Taunting and mocking every ache, every pang.
Invading despondence with
Bedeviling strength and determination,
Demanding the impending and imminent spiral descent
More dangerous and inclement.

Face down in despair, life becomes a bleached white hell.
A flaming bouquet of numbing, frosty torment
Searing, searing, searing
My thickly charred crust till I can no longer pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Pain echoes out of the abyss,
Convening the proprietor of suicide
Who compassionately erases the color of misery from us sufferers of life,
And holds out the only comfort that hoards
NO illusion, NO myth, NO charade:
The warm, blue peace of death.

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