I’m hoping that the keys on this board are reflective of the ivory of a piano; one never forgets how to use them.
Current conditions: Silent.
Head space: Emotional…at best.
I chose to type because, honestly, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do anymore.
Disassociation, isolation, numbness to the world around me. These are all characteristics of the past weeks, months…years? I’ve fallen so far into a well of unknown that it is such a struggle to even dream of what the sun looks like when it rises again.
Will it rise again?
Honestly, I do not know.
There does not seem to a rope, no ladder to be found, and I am too weak to use the strength in my fingers to climb up the archaic walls that surround me.
Hope. It is a struggle.
So I sit in the darkness, contemplating how I got myself into this position, and push away the dreams of ever returning out of this hole. After all, dreams are for those who can afford to allow their cares to float away, unlike those whose nightmares keep them anchored to reality.
I think about hatred and betrayal; jealousy and fear. The ever-revolving themes that I’ve found within my own existence. Hatred towards institutions that have failed, betrayal of those I chose to trust, jealousy towards those who I could not afford to be part of, and fear linked to the endless suspicion that one day, I too will be forgotten.
The echoing historical tropes bounce around in my aching head prior to filling, swelling to the cusp of drowning within my own soul. How can such a man live if he cannot even breathe?
Acceptance begins to creep in to my existence; this belief that I should anticipate that this situation will forever be my new reality. The subtle suggestion that I should embrace this position, to stop dreaming about what could be if I had the ability to escape the pit of which I lay.
Chills course along my skin, raising small hairs to remind me of my mortal humanity. Can one accept the current reality if the reality will run a shorter course versus the aspirations of a failed dream? I can only imagine drawing that out in theory will chalk, dust, and an empty room. It is beginning to get colder, perhaps the temperature, perhaps myself. The calming recesses of the mind begin to whisper sweet mentions of sleep, rest, and closing of my eyes.
After all; who can stop me at this point? No levers or pulleys exist in order to keep my sights focused on escape. Perhaps, rest is what I need.
Sleep becomes dreams and dreams allow the cares of the current to float away.
Yes, closure of the soul, silencing of the heart, and an internal escape from this precarious predicament may be of the best interest of the existing. One must wonder if the chilling impacts of the heart were in some ways the best blessings within the crisis.
If I feel nothing; in turn no more harm can come to me.
Curiosity inquiries on whether or not I will one day be found, a hand held down, or a rope let go. Until, and if, that moment does arrive; I shall listen to the heart calm, the soul silence, and the eyes shut out my sorrowful surroundings.
May I rest.
May I find peace.