Thy Hurt

So many yesterdays shrouded in shadow. The camera obscures the past filtering out all pain and suffering thus revealing a forlorn distant happiness that wraps around me tightly like a suffocating blanket. It precludes yet even more suffering and more emptiness, and so it goes. Every day is a death. Every night a rebirth – only to face yet another lifetime chained to a rock near the crashing sea as vultures feast on exposed innards. Someone once told me we need this hurt that we should embrace it. Because the day we forget the past is the day we no longer mourn for those departed, dead, alive, or both. The day we stop is the day we cease to honor these whispering ghosts who dwell among the tiny spaces between our eyelids in the dreamy, shadowy half-light. It is the day we no longer leave flowers on silent graves.

And lately it seems as though I spend more time in dream – with my soul wandering ever deeper into the wilderness, as I sit before this screen watching the rain. I can hear your cries and I know you’re out there, like me, scanning the skyline waiting for a sign that will probably never come. I listen and try to discern what you say, above the chaotic din of broken souls who wash about alongside in the endless pool Mnemosyne, here where Acheron and Cocytus meet; countless dry, dead souls.

This is my hurt.

This is my paradigm, my path. This is the endless roller-coaster I ride on the diabolical Moebius fire-dragon – an endless series of great peaks and deep valleys, with no destination or end ever in sight. Just the next score.

And all I can ask or plead for is that you please never stop searching for me.

P.S. I’m always out there runnin’ just to be on the run..