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the sun is killing me

shining right into the wound

spilling the pain for all to see

its glare merciless

soulless

indifferent

the rays like daggers

and sweet all the same

loving and hating

while dying

together

 

The sky opened suddenly

and he tumbled to earth

Unable to open his wings

he crashed with great force

Dazed and fractured

he did not move for some time

Feather by feather his wings opened

and he rose slowly

The density of matter

overwhelmed his senses

and he sank to his knees

Lowering his head he prayed

for salvation

from himself

Art: Igor Mitoraj, Angelo Caduto (Fallen Angel)

 

 

in the darkness it shone

white and ghostly

swaying as if suspended on a stalk

its roots deep in the nebula

invisible moorings

sapping light

 

Art: Odilon Redon, Strange Flower (Little Sister of the Poor), 1880

redon

 

It was quiet on the day the door closed.

The morning rose grey and still. There was no sound, as if the wind lost its voice. The sky was gone, replaced by clouds that obliterated shapes and stifled all sound.There was no need to get up. Suddenly there was no need to struggle, no need to live.

Yet life was all there was.

Even the silence breathed.

But you had to be dead to hear it.

Or alive enough.

 

 

I have a job. I have had it for a while, but now it has become full time. It starts first thing in the morning, and carries on late into the night. I have not asked about remuneration. I am afraid to. It would validate it. The job is demanding and does not leave much space for doubt. Although doubt is at its very root. This is one of the tasks of the job. Fight the doubt. From the early hours of the morning to the fading light of dusk, I work. It seems these days that I am employed non-stop, and with no hope of a vacation. Frankly, the job I have leaves no room for free time. It is all consuming, eternally demanding, and with no recompense of any kind. Oh, forgive me, there is a small bonus. It is called: I survived the day, but it comes with no accolades or rewards. It just means that the job continues, that I am not out of work. As long as I show up.

My job? Working every day not to kill myself.

So far, I have been successful. Maybe I’ll be promoted.

 

francis-bacon-Study-for-Self-Portrait-1984

ART: Francis Bacon, Study for Self-Portrait, 1984

 

Depression is like erosion. The changes are slow, imperceptible at first. And then mountains begin to fall. Great cliffs crumble exposing the devastation, the charred inside of a tormented mind; gaping black holes and jagged edges as sharp as blades. Soft entrails calcified into rock. Depression is like erosion. It leaves nothing behind, only deep trails of tears, like empty riverbeds. And you have lost the map leading to fresh water. All you can do is sit by the dry gully and listen to the Lari cry.

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Blazey_1

At the edge of night, a giant clap of thunder tore through the silence, its deep reverberating rumble like a dark omen. The rain came down heavy and dense, battling and winning against the howling wind. It encased the house in watery bars, and she curled up in bed, small and helpless in the face of this sudden onslaught. In the relentless darkness she sensed a presence, shadowy silhouettes slowly taking familiar shape, long unseen. She held her breath as they circled around, her heart enormous and heavy, beating painfully against the ribcage. A stifling curtain descended upon her, large heaving bodies close by, sucking the air from the room, from hope, that disappeared in inconsolable defeat. She lay without moving, as they growled and snorted, nuzzling her in their morbid, insistent affection. There was no point in struggling. There was no point at all, as dark thoughts picked up their danse macabre, churning and churning, boring deeper all the time, down to the very pit of her being. She lay like this for an eternity, she may as well have been dead. Dawn rose slowly somewhere outside the window, somewhere beyond the insistent sorrow that now held her captive, its embrace like a tender vise…

982203648_1386197689

 

 

 

A dear friend shared his thoughts with me. All I could do to comfort him, was to understand…

********

… just returned home from the shack.

(…)

I know what you mean about hating memories. I have to make a conscious effort to focus on those that haven’t been burnt out of me by tragedy and the ruin of depression. Sometimes that seems impossible. I see beauty all round me but sometimes cannot feel it in my heart even as I recognize it. I think as we get older our sensitivities etch a sadness that mars our capacity for appreciation.

(…)

…I felt empty. I’m not always like this but something sometimes feels broken. We both seem to share this malady – and it can stay without abatement for long periods of time. I usually get angry enough at some point to will it away.

*********

Egon-Schiele-Paintings-8

Art: Egon Schiele

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The television set hissed nervously. She turned her head and noticed the Black Spot for the first time.  It was sitting there on her pale satin cushion. She tried not to look at it but finally, with hesitation, she extended her hand towards it. She felt the cool surface of the fabric. Nothing more. It had vanished. Turning back to the television set, she switched her mind off.

She woke up in the dark. The meagre light seeping through the blinds seemed dirty. It was one of those horrible mornings when the night lingers on, trailing behind it the soiled veil of suffering. She stretched painfully, her thin arms yellow in the reluctant light of the dawn. On her left palm she noticed a net of opal veins, tiny streams labouring towards the fingernails. With a sigh, she sat up and her glance fell on the worn rug by the bed. The Black Spot was balancing on the edge. Carefully avoiding stepping on it, she shuffled to the bathroom and stared into the mirror for a long time, seeking consolation.

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Outside, the park was empty at this hour. She had the choice of fairly clean benches. The hard wood seemed uninviting though, and she slowly lowered herself onto a crispy pile of autumn leaves. The aroma of wet grass enveloped her and the mist rose around her. She opened her book and allowed the letters a moment to arrange themselves into sentences, her mind ready to discern their meaning. The dot over the ‘i’ looked out of proportion and in panic her mind got all entangled. She closed her eyes and fell into the leafy carpet.

In the phone booth, she searched impatiently for a coin. Her purse seemed bottomless and filled with completely useless objects. Finally she felt the tiny metal disc and pulled it out carefully. There was dust under her fingernails.

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They met in the Café. They sat there trying not to give in to the impersonal atmosphere. Their poses suggested nonchalant complacency with only the occasional flutter of strained muscles betraying them. She threaded words carefully at first; then letting them form their own pattern, she listened to the sound of her voice.

The hot liquid in her throat, the hum of voices, the friendly person sitting opposite her, all this made her feel warm, safe, even though she was aware of the superficiality of the situation. The tiny speck on the napkin changed shape just as she was lifting it to her lips. With resignation she placed it back on the table and looked a the Black Spot. Then they paid and left.

Until now, the Black Spot had been appearing unexpectedly, surprising her. She could still ignore it, change her frame of mind, close her eyes, laugh aloud. She woke up innocently, wandered through the rooms lightly, sat in her chair with a familiar stoop. She lived her life. But recently the long corridors of her castle looked ominous, the half-closed doors frightened her, and the white walls had dust on them. Were there flies in winter?

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She was washing her long dresses in the bathtub, watching her reddened hands part the soapy water and disappear under the lather. The Black Spot was sitting in the soap dish, and every time she bent down to dip in the wash, her face would come very close to it.

In the kitchen the floor tiles were ornamented with a net of cracks. When she squinted her eyes, she could imagine it was a design. She lit a match and blue gas drew a ring of flame around the kettle. The warm smell of bread brought back memories that shielded her. They caressed her eyelids, and sometimes brought tears.

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She went about without looking. If she did, she would see it. She knew. Sometimes she wouldn’t light the lamps, watching the evening draw out the colours, uncovering the black background of sight. Or she would bring out the old chandeliers and light them all, with the flames reflected in her eyes. It took a long time and tired her to brighten up all the rooms. The vibrating light from the candles filled her head. Half-blinded, she opened her eyes wide, knowing it would not be there. She still had the strength to fight.

When the brightness tired her, she went out. She dressed warmly, the big scarf hiding most of her face. Someone bumped into her and she suddenly became aware of her body. Folding her arms on her chest, she turned into the familiar street.

The doorbell rang somewhere inside the house and for a moment she regretted coming here. The Black Spot was palpitating near her left foot and with a dose of relief she saw the door open.

It was difficult to talk. She had hoped that her diffused eyes and nervous hands would speak for her, but the faces just stared back at her, meaningless morals cascading from their mouths. She wanted to cry, to put her head on a warm back and just cry in peace. But the backs that turned on her were rigid and awkward. Some she even wanted to console but suddenly felt tired, and wrapping the scarf around her, walked out and closed the door.

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The Black Spot hid under the dry leaves, glided in the wind, tripped her footsteps. She tried catching it, but her hands fluttered feebly and something resembling anger rose up in her throat.

When she woke up it had spread over the walls. They were oppressive, ready to crush her. In the bathroom she gave up taking a shower. The Black Spot hovering near the drain made her nauseous. The blue flame in the kitchen gave off no heat and the tea was tasteless.

Standing on the balcony, she followed the dark clouds with tired eyes. Her hair slapped against her cheeks, loose strands getting entangled in her earrings. It was bitterly cold and she relished the sensation, allowing the shivers to rack her body. The Black Spot, wrapped around the doorknob, waited for her in the hallway. She could not see past it, and her foot found no ground.  With a mixture of fear and curiosity, she stepped in.

©aother 2012

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Art by Piotr Lichwierowicz