The Descent


I’m hanging around on some street. It’s hot, balmy, and when I close my eyes, I can tell she’s nearby. I can’t see her, but I can feel her. I always feel her. Each beat of her heart mirrors my own, and just like that, I clap my hands and stand on the tips of my toes, and I’m dancing to the music of the universe and she’s so close I can smell her scent and she smells like a newborn baby swimming in a bowl of eggs and milk and when I lick my lips I make my way through the traffic lunging around like I’m drunk and maybe I am drunk but not much. Those driving sound their horns, but I just act as if they don’t exist. With my face to the sun, the town circles me and people go about their lives, but they’re of no interest. Maybe they once were, but now I concern myself only with the beauty of the unseen. If others had their way, I’d have left these dreams behind years ago, just the same as they did, but despite the hardship, doing that would be suicide. Being a writer means living with a deep sense of shame that plagues your waking hours, and yet you’ll speak a beautiful truth, a truth louder than love, war, and everything in between. And that’s what matters. It’s the only thing that matters. When you open that door and step through, you’ll at first experience a great descent. Many never make it. The sense of shame at being on the outside becomes too much. The struggle with finding your voice. The crystalised pain that comes with changing from one form to another with no sense of where anything is heading. Many give in. But when you’ve made your way through the darkness, there comes an incredible light, and it fills you up. It changes you beyond recognition, and every act thereafter becomes as potent and charged as a declaration of love. The smallest of details become a revelation. The faintest of colours, explosions of wonder like fireworks in the night sky. Once you give yourself to the other side, nothing will ever be the same. So here I am, running through town sticking my tongue out like a dog, and as the day seems to last forever, I swear I can taste her kiss. Her kiss that’s been with me through the thick and thin like a golden ring upon my finger.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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