Monday, July 21, 2014

And in the end...

He sits in a void. There are no walls, yet he's trapped. It's darker than our darkest dreams, Mother, if that's possible. He looks like a convict awaiting sentencing, baffled by his own folly, terrified of his fate. His eyes are sunken, afraid to see what surrounds him. I wonder if he foresaw this sad destiny while he still walked among the living. Surely my father knew that there was a high cost for low life-a divine tax on his unholy war with the world. I can hear him now, though speechless he sits:

"Jay! Jay, Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on? Jason! Get over here! Where the Hell am I?"

I was his eyes and his ears at the end, Ma. I was his feet and his hands. I was all he had left.
Abraham once told a deceased rich man who, in life, had shunned the impoverished Lazarus, that he could not breach the barrier between life and death to warn his brothers of this awful place, yet I saw my father in this same place, I am certain. Surely I was meant to see. Death awoke me in a dream, and took me to where Dad sits now- to that pit that still rattles me when I hit the pillow at night. Surely I'll qualify to join them both one day. Surely this was my warning. My own path grows dimmer by the day and my inner fire all but consumes me. The vision is burned into my overheated brain and carved into my aging heart. I pray that he does not remain there, that perhaps his is only a probationary state. The scales of the Almighty cannot possibly tip too far against him. I forgave him, with a weak and willful soul. It only stands to reason that Perfect Love cannot condemn him if a fool like me can let him off the hook for the years he stole from us, Mother. I know that you want only white-hot lightning and Heavenly fire for his final walk, but such a wish may only bring you the same wrath in the end. Our time is running out-every single grain of sand that counts our days is falling faster through the narrow glass and bringing us ever closer to the hour when we can no longer decide for ourselves where we will go in the end. 

But perhaps the end starts much sooner than that. The heart can stop beating and bleeding long before all systems fail. We've both proven that, old crow. Perhaps this is the real finality for us, the worst possible fate. Perhaps Love pleads with us without condition as we chase our days, and we simply refuse to hear. Maybe, dear woman, it is not the Divine who will cast us out, but rather us who will reject the Divine as we clutch our wounds and curse the universe that allowed this dark spell we're both under. I reach to the heavens as I write, with a fist of steel, and I shake it to its very core. I call the Great Unseen out from hiding, and He hears me not. I demand that Love show itself, but it cowers and cringes. Thus, I reject it outright and swear myself to solitude. I am a raging vampire. I am the king of romance, the hopeless hoper, the lover who lost. The story just took a sharp turn south. I tear the pages and toss them. They fall like ashes at my feet. Only the nighttime world can comfort and contain me. Only falling stars can light my way. And in this nocturnal trance we shall meet one final time and we shall forever part ways, bitter blood of my heart. We are in fact one, Mother. We are joined by the tainted primordial ooze, yet we cannot exist under the same October moon without causing a collision that will crack the sky wide open and seal us together forever within the chasm where the rich man and Abraham argue into eternity. You must leave. You are casting a shadow on my perfect black night. She too must leave, my porcelain wife, the sun that burns my skin. There is no life-blood to be drawn from her; her heart beats dry. Everyone must leave; the end is near. I will see you soon, Father.

Footnote: "It is sometimes refreshing to embrace a position of uncompromising unforgiveness...there are surprises and rewards that follow in the wake of undiluted expression of one's hateful seizures..."
Leonard Cohen

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