The ground drops away, fragments of what was solid and real litter down into the cavernous hole expanding beneath my dangling soul. I clutch and scrape the edge of the hole desperate to find a hand hold. My heart races, my limbs tremble and my head pounds to the rhythm of my laboring heart. When I look down I can not see the bottom although I know that it is there waiting to receive my lifeless remains, to entomb my flickering spirit. Perhaps that is where my comfort lies. At least there in the dark I find some constancy. Pain, at least, is familiar. It is as universal to my being as the personality I can not escape even in the pit. Where ever I go, there I am.

If I let myself let go I know that it will be OK. I don�t believe one human is all that important to the world more or less but I want people to understand. I don�t want folks to shake their heads and sigh about a shame. Inside the shell there is a psyche screaming, pounding against the plastic persona created to protect that now simply imprisons.

Words are my only weapon against the black night. I can�t wear black or paint my face, the world doesn�t want to see it, they certainly don�t want to share it, and even if they understand, they don�t want to admit it. I laugh when I see the young people who embrace Goth. White skin, black sunken eyes, costumes that hold the world at arms length. Try living in the dark while outwardly projecting the same exterior that all the others hide behind. In youth we have the luxury of expression while Mom and Dad still provide a safety net for all our youthful indulgencies. As a grown up you must put aside your agony and pretend for the worlds comfort to be what they are comfortable with. They don�t want to see your pain and it is rude of you to ask them to share it with you (they have their own pain, by the by, but most of the time children are too obsessed with their own suffering to see the truth, everyone suffers in their own special way)

Existence is unhappiness. That understanding is never far from my conscious thoughts. It is the underlying thread in my tapestry. This knowledge bleeds the color from my world. I am unsure if the colors that others seem to experience are brighter than mine or if they simply tell me they are so as to feel better themselves. Am I living in a delusion or are they? On a good day I can almost pretend there is some reason to get out of bed, if for no other reason than the chance that I might have one moment of distraction from the reality of reality. If I could get lost in a moment and forget myself even once a day it would make life more bearable.

I�m not even sure the things on my reality list are something to be thankful for. Perhaps if I simply sat beneath a tree and contemplated the delicate life of a blade of grass or the tiny insects who find shelter beneath its towering splendor, I might find the comfort I seek. Who�s to say what I have attempted to find comfort in isn�t instead a prison of my own creation. Who is to say that I need a roof over my head or food in my ample belly, maybe I need to sit in the rain with an empty stomach to find an appreciation for life.

I wish you Peace

~alison~

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