Forgive me for not writing you sooner.
I have turned to rummage through soots and ashes, trying to find the remnants of burnt bridges. Lost pieces of the yous in me, once discarded as solely yous, discovered to be solely me, ironically.
I have turned to deeply dig in darkened soil, scouring the subterranean’s cold. All to find more parts of that dumb boy shattered, buried in dejection. Figured obsolete, yet proven core of the matter. Alas, core of the matter, as ever so heavy are the dreams of the naive. Unchaseable. Unshakeable.
Weights around my ankles.
I have dived to drown, sinking to the lightless trenches. All to find the lifeless learn to breathe underwater. They adjust to the weight of omnidirectional pressure. In a strange way it has kept me together.
To have a burden, purposed.
I had forgotten such burdens existed. Ever withstanding the dysthymic dull blade, weighing down on sternum. Ache in the perpetuity of unkilling. But this chronic depression never did pierce my skin quite like you did.
Pain can strike as brilliant light. Harshly cleaving the self-destroying muck of body. Piercing straight through the crypt-like mind’s umbral fog. Then, razing on; to reach the eternal, where its brightly beam branches out to, for a second, illuminate the eternal hidden within every mortal. Then, so exposed as a monstrous claw; grasps, rips, and tears at the uncovered, helplessly defenceless soul.
What’s left is little pain worth dying for.
By that single strike of brilliant light, I can survive the weight of dysthymia’s dull blade; the noose made out of bondage rope; the lone rooftop-experienced call of the void, wherein adrenaline squeezes the air from the lungs.
All that’s real is restricted airflow.
When no blood is drawn. When no neck is broken. When a last shred of soul pulls you back ere the tumble. I have learned this.
Life is tenacious. It rules the deepest layers of consciousness, whether wanted, unwanted, or taken for granted. Animation, the ongoing motion in everflow established, has proven to be miserably inevitable. And so I have moved; a word I’d rather choose by lack of proactively moving on. It has been a drifting through the void-like realms of near empty space. Bombarded by astral rays. Evolving against my will. Transmuting to once more be human.
Resurrecting in these recollected pieces of a husk, once emptied and shattered. Now reassembled.
Bereft of all but the tiniest shred of spirit.
No matter what this life is, it is still lived. No matter what a soul or spirit is, it is experienced within the flesh inborn self-destructive. That, I owe to you. All of it. Which makes this letter long due. I guess what’s kept me from writing it is knowing you’d be the only one knowing why and how it is exactly what it is: half a thank you letter, half a soul connection, temporarily re-established.
I love you ever so dearly,
—
7-4-2021, M.A. Tempels ©
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