Below the Horizon

Adam

Adam

I dwell too much on form and stare at the sienna hue of the brewing tea. I listlessly poured in a larger cup. I felt my arm scrape the edge of the box wherein the teabags sat. I’ve done it a thousand times, but not like that before.

I was drifting, in and out. I feel a tense ache in my head. I am disoriented with not a whole lot left, and dreams resemble a world I left unfinished. The tea might help, but I doubt it will. The circle of life is a carousel ride, and I cannot bear to get on.

The day before, a moment struck me and blood raced through my veins. The tinging sensation was strange, curious, but unmistakable as a source of power. I found that spark, in the void, when I found my face in the wound. I faced the pain head on.

It was no longer my flaw, it was a dimming of a bright light subjected to me, as a President viewed via a pinhole projector, the radiance is blocked out. I didn’t ask for it, perhaps they were right after all. That hurts the most. I rule over an invisible kingdom.

I was born nearing a sunrise. My fate was sealed, I am perennially dawning. Just when I appear to have settled in my stride, I take myself right back to the moment of clarity. If the sun is not respectful, it’s because the moon is in hiding. I am prompted once again, to email, the person I should leave to a private hell.

I find that abominable to some extent, oh but it satiates and appeases, because I’m respecting myself, and following good counsel. Yet there are no signs of life, as if she’s waiting for permission. I wonder should a man heralded by sunrise stay below the horizon line, I question that often.

When I rose in the sky I met the source of my pain, and thus a marriage of an ineffable duty proceeded. I am the realisation of a cruel world, dispelled through the goodness of service. I vanquish the shadow of my own mortality, in the bittersweet embrace of circularity.

And that’s what Simba had to face, and what we must all to some degree face, that the individual proxy for an unexpressed rebellion of a cosmic order must be set in clear context with the irrepressible determination of the universe. There is no other alternative, because we wax and wane, find joy and pain.

Comments are disabled.