Death and thoughts of a grim nature have always fascinated me, I think we all have a little darkness in us. Sometimes, if we let it, that darkness can consume us, mind, body and soul. This is a short piece I wrote concerning the oppressive ensnarement it can have on the human condition. Written on the 5th March 2017.
I idle a while these drunken hours, the dream-like stupor of suicide’s clarity. If the darkness of the dampen earth of graves could ever be considered vivid, then I would be a reveller in the vibrancy of its bleak hues.
Long ago I opened myself to the virtues of the dead, opened my core to the seeping blackness, and the slow yet steady expulsion of corrosion grim. I died, spiteful of life and its follies, turned to dust this granite heart of mine and interred myself unaided in a shallow pit many miles from sanctuary, so that no lost wanderer may find my resting place.
In my sadness I crave solitude, crave the silencing finality of the glorious end. I sought it out in the recesses of my bleakest thoughts, the featureless rooms of insanity and the unadorned caverns of my woe. I found nothing. The search drove me into the wilds, fighting the winds and rain and the clawing pleas of dim retribution’s dying light. I shunned them all and carved my prize from the fetid tombs of forgotten wastelands with my own bloody hands, raw and numb. I toiled in the downpour of winter’s worst storm, daring the tempest to bury me in its anger. Shivering, tormented, fevered with the madness of approaching doom, I excavated the unreachable recesses of the soul, tore frigid handfuls from the earth and beheld my ruinous work. A dank, unforgiving place to rest eternally in the folds, isolated from tearful eyes or warm embracing hands.
With my soul reaved from its untilled field, a harvester in the dark of night’s barren void came to my side. I cried, oh how I cried undiluted tears of joy when he cut me down with his scythe. How I revelled in the embrace of that sullen pit, how I loved the fall into its nameless, faceless cradle. How I turned myself down and let these worn bones of mine sink into the bubbling mud. I have delivered myself back to the earth and await nature’s cruellest of decays; the sardonic decomposition of vitality itself. Birth me again from this rotten shell, oh cruel writers of law. I beseech you from this stricken pit of mine, grant this lowly sapling a fair germination.
Of dreams I have had, swirling in the storm clouds of my most tempestuous manias, there is a light that illuminates my crypt. A pale orange light, one which tells of a future unseen. A murmuring sliver of soul lingers within my desolation, and in my slumber of ages I know I must become that light. Let my putrescence seep into the ether, let it ignite in the world above. Let the rain come down, aided in its descent by the forks of lightning and grimaces of concealed stars. Once more they come sombrely and dance a while with my phosphorescent wisps. I crave more of the reaper, demand that which life could not afford me. Set me to work, grim death. Set me dancing the ethereal jig of the damned upon my own pitiful grave. Gift this wish of dead dreamers to me, flicker a while in the rotting hours of murmuring corpses. See with your featureless eyes my expunged and withered soul, see it light up the night in both the luminescence of decay and the final fleeting joys of a martyred man.
I am death. I am light. I am the contradiction of soaring dreams and burning candles by solemn graveside. My dance is complete, and I am ready to dissipate into the ether for all eternity. In this radiant encore of mine, I am released.