24. I feel that with the many different energies that must always surround me as a living man there must be some means to contain the rapacious fury that penetrates me incessantly with a silver sword drawn directly from the bowels of the mirror. Sadly, I am forced to confront the weary head that I find watching me strangely through the frosted lens of a world turned on its head by the tepid rainfall that clings to my every pore. And I cannot hope to understand its hieratic gestures which contain and confuse me with the possibility of optimism unleashed upon my hapless head. I look at the life I have lived and find myself drenched in the bloody tears that I shed for the innocence, for the hope, and the happiness which I have shed in my journey towards myself. Seamlessly, I come apart and flounder in the gentle breeze that caresses me with its spiritual breath and hope that it will help me fight the last hurdles to my becoming whole again.
Life is pain; birth is pain; beauty is pain. They are dark and desolate towers of loneliness that should rightly be approached with trepidation and sorrow. In life’s unbidden challenges there lies a melancholy note that is unending, having been driven by the divinity of drunk vices and contained in that most dreadful of all disharmonies which emanate from the mirror. I find myself rudely fondling my rough cynicism with black fingers designed not for comforting caresses but instead for the common labor that inevitably must take its toll on my old and broken bones. There is a message in the darkness that life’s mischievous cherubim wishes to pour upon my head like some unholy baptism designed to anoint my sinister brow with the temptations and terrors of a life well-lived. And I am ravenous for it, this vile ritual of deep degradation which has no form or function, simply a passive beckoning that cannot be acknowledged. So I tether myself to the sign posts which have led me to the space that lies directly before the mirror and reach out for its helping hands as my wary demons come slithering along the misty grove in search of the manna that my primeval ritual has summoned to their world. I watch hungrily as they swallow great mouthfuls of the essence which I had summoned not for their nourishment, but instead as burnt offering designed to appease the devil that torments me safely from the mirror. With a wink and a leer he tortures me, goading me with knowledge that lies just beyond my reach and forever beyond my grasp for the simple fact that I am human and we have been taught not to reach too far past the stars. Like Icarus, I once ventured too high, greedy for the sun’s face while the wax melted from my wings and I plummeted through the air which once had succored me yet now sings to me of my forthcoming demise. I flew too close to Heaven so the Fates must make me pay.
It is interesting to watch the dissolution of an affair as intricate and corrupt as the one which has tied me up in knots with the disdain of my merry mimic in the mirror. Life’s many temper tantrums take their toll upon my patience and I find myself provoking its endless petulance in the hopes that it will have the courage to release me form this fruitless marriage. I long to be a polygamist to that I might flee from bed to bed and each time leave behind the chastisements of that futile love which must be banished to the cold heart of the mirror. It is a desperate search for salvation, undertaken only by the most foolish of all sages, perpetually hunting that savage predator which makes its home in that passionate wasteland which lies just outside the mirror.