Darkness, by definition an ocean, indiscriminate to the forces within its domain. 

While arcane by nature, everything understands the presence of absence.

In our very beings, we are all made with two things, a hunger, and it’s ethereal tears.

As a community and individuals, we all value progress. Seeing others rise above craters of doubt brings us pride, sometimes reminding us of our flights into static stability; our previous dissents through risks juxtapose our following ascension into growth. Our smiles gleam in the name of honest pride, understanding the pain it took for another to reach such a prestigious position.

But as foretold, our hunger isn’t without its pains. Just as it has its pleasures, our primal drive has its dismantling terrors. Often these shadows attack at our most vulnerable, no different than a lion in the tall grass. They attack our jugulars, tear at our capillaries, striking our most infantile, innocent sides.

As part of a social species, I reject this oppression in the name of those who will come after me. In defiance I stand here today, with Jude, and together in support of each other we will demonstrate humanity’s resilience. In this piece we will expose our fears and come to terms with them, shoving them to the side like the nuisances they are.

Purgatory

Purgatory is a place in-between. Not a place of pain and torment, but a place of foreseen hope. Joy out of reach. 

I yearn for the taste of life. Constantly in-between spaces of progress and procrastination. Met with the poetic influence of my brain. The best I try is good enough. But when push and shove come to an end, I’m met with a grade or requirement that quantifies my existence on paper. A childish fear of failed succession. I tease myself with the thought of something or someone waiting for me. A good job, a wife, children. Will these boundaries born from outside influence hold onto my efforts of happiness? But life continues to provide an unending cycle of more decisions. The term of life will end fulfilled, I tell myself, and I am satisfied. 

Millions of opportunities are just within my reach. A place passes my train of thought on the other set of tracks. A world within the scope of my inner eye. A whole new life made for me right there. New routine, new friends, new life again. This is hopeful but makes me ambitiously terrified. Another life leads to another death. And I ask myself how many lives people lead. 

The twisting of the leather on my belt to turn and pet my snoring dog as I type this reminds me of the tension I bear witness to day-to-day. Leather rubs leather as people dull one another. The unending stretch and pull of a social system. And the silver monitor glaring back at me reminds me of my escape. My escape into technology affirms my thoughts that an entire consciousness can be completely consumed. This is a fear I cling to closely. I delve deeper into my monitor now aware of the thousands of pixels that create my devastating mirage. 

A note on personal purgatory: Although the process is painful, reaping your time and efforts like a wild animal, the true side provides an option for me, for Diego, for all of us. A final outstretched arm wherever one may find themself. A choice given to an heir retrieved from disaster. Forever or not we suffer in limbo.

Rusted death

Seeing the world grow should be relaxing. Watching seeds of potential blossom into beautiful flowers of talent is allegedly a virtue. Witnessing others break into the soil you couldn’t reach is supposed to fill one with pride. 

But then again…

…what about your effort? What about the hours and emotions you’ve poured into your work, is it fair to them? How should one’s pride remain confident knowing their work isn’t futile, after being trampled on by mere accident; how is the perception of a hunting dog supposed to remain intact after witnessing the profuse bloodlust of a cougar? Most of the time people aren’t personally out for each other, meaning that when someone beats you, it was probably for themselves. The shame that comes from this probability makes me fall to my knees. Knowing that my milestones are just afterthoughts to an elusive few feels like a condemnation of sorts. Like my past struggles are a stage set for a comedy show. It feels like the individuals above me get to laugh at the “ridiculous” things I struggle with. My heart thunders clouds of malice in the presence of these worries. I try to protect myself by disillusioning how I feel, replacing my “failure” with hate. For a stroke in time, I hate the other person, but when I run away into a safe space, all the tension within me collapses.

It torments me to think back on these moments, especially on the inevitability of being stuck with that putrid rage. It’s only a matter of time until I find my envy confined in a space I can’t leave. I can’t avoid social events forever; as a human it is within my nature to socialize. I’m afraid that the emotions that make me strong will turn on me, and destroy the things I love. In such a pure state of malice no person or project is assured compassion. In those moments I could feel my mind trembling after every step, shivering in the suspense of what I might do. And as intimate as the vines of envy are to my heart,

I hope to exterminate them.

It’s not fair to those around me.

It’s not fair to those I love.

And it certainly isn’t fair to me, carrying a burden bound to stab its needles deeper into my being.

If I’m not able to see others grow and turn my pride into compassion, I’ll close myself shut, killing my potential. When my eyes swell at the sight of others’ satisfaction I’ll become a recluse, a bomb ticking to its doom.

In the name of human nature, I must get over this revolting fear, I won’t let my putrid pride override the empathy that makes me valuable. For the love of my family, I will stare this fear down and reject its advances. 

The viability of this fear is better spent as a point of juxtaposition rather than a dread. Instead of muddying my motivation, the fear of internal anarchy will promote my drive. Like a picky child learning of starving countries, I will work tirelessly to avoid calamity. Even if my attempts don’t make sense, I know my subconscious will learn from them. I know my conscious adrenaline will translate into a grateful subtone. When I eventually give out, when fatigue overcomes all my ambition, I know my stress will create a horrid prediction, but my endeavors for change will catch me. My previous aspirations will be a pillow upon my head, only made sweeter with the foresight of rotten futures.