You who would be crowned the lords of existence, I can only sit back and wonder at your temerity, the strength of your "fell purpose", as if you truly believed that one day you would be given, almost magically - it falling from the sky into your arms - everything that you wished, everything that you desired when you slept in cold beds and tossed and turned and waited for the world to open for you. I say this now because suddenly I find myself outside of your realm and I am lost forever, lost all the more tragically because I can not even convince myself I was ever one of you. But perhaps this is not tragedy speaking, or tragedy falling from the starry skies in order to assume a man's shape, still full of distant suns, but possibility and a new chaos opening, the shifting forms of tenebrous, tentacled creation, a Lovecraftian nightmare that I would contemplate from my position on the floor, as now, my eyes drooping and slowly slipping into sleep, my mouth full of bitter coppery blood, muscles sore, the door locked against the world, the music on, the corners open and marking time - yes, like you - for eternity to descend from the chill of space, angles pierced by angel's hearts, bleeding, broken, torn and waiting. I can not help but gaze, now, at the corner nearest to me, lit by one pale lamp so feeble, its space illuminated in a flash of consciousness as quickly as dimensions shift and the foul mysteries of abstractions resolve themselves out of the arcane into concrete forms. I half-expect a face to press itself against the glass, another figure in black, a headless apparition, again, its hands against the inner surface of the mirror (polished steel and mercury) - I might as well expect words to become deeds and metaphors to clothe themselves in bitter, rancorous flesh, and for desire to overwhelm those intransient, frightened hearts in the absent spaces (empty souls, aching ciphers, shadowless lives in sterile white halls) outside my window, passing from one night sound to the next, out from city roads and the hissing of black tires on still-warm concrete under the chill of the blazing moon to frozen fields, dew-frosted and night-given gray under the gaze of sleepless eyes, those close to my own heart in darkened rooms I will never see. I can close my own eyes, though, and see those fields, and wander through them beneath the moon (so bright tonight) or under the cover of rustling leaves, branches withered and overshadowing, lying forgotten perhaps forever, feeling the separation of souls in inches that mimic years, galaxies, as close as snow on the tops of trees and the warmth of the fire within. Perhaps I was given the best of that world when I was held back from entering it. That lifeblood and bitter pulsing, rising from poisoned sleep and tempestuous dreams, mocking irony, mocking all who laugh in bitter derision with a pain unavoidable and deep, representing a real life that is so quickly fading despite all the weary efforts of this world to guide its eyes to illusions of love, of life, of happiness in an imagined tranquility...perhaps none of this was for me. This is the lesson: the puzzle piece fits perfectly, and yet it's not to be. We can not own another soul, we can not live another walking way in place of our own, we have to wait - serpent sworn piercing deep and true, fed on gall - and dream in place of drifting away days, we are the cursed and we sleep until the next life.
It is a venomous, lethal game, then, this playing of particulars, reducing life to desire and then wishing past it as if one had the wings and will to transcend it, one eye always on the future, one on the past self, one (Argus-eyed and adamantine, remember) on the inner self as it hides in flesh and tries to forget. But one must stare at the traitor within as well as the enemies without, and vigilance, hanging over the naked spirit - upright, held skyward on stakes, crucified - is all. All that remains, then, is the watcher. And you, lords of existence? I wait for you in your own dreamless sleep, I will call for you soundless on velvet soles and whisper in your ears, tempting, teasing, moving, asking you to rise again, asking for that final Fall that would bring peace, but which never comes...U. Amtey
27 December 2004, overarched the Solstice