2004-06-26
The Golden Horn
I stumbled out of the dark and into some dirt path partially penetrated by light, which showed itself through the thick blanket of ivy. The still darkness is unsettling, and I feel that today there is a battle that rages within.
In the "Song of Roland", the hero finds himself dying a slow and agonizing death, yet still manages to collect enough breath to blow the horn and declare battle. Thick blood runs about his face, soon covering his hands, which still grip the golden horn of hope.
Oftentimes things are numbing like ice, and you find that you are not as fragile as you think--the heart bends but not breaks. The heart screams in agonizing pain, yet never sobs.
I find myself like Roland--velvet blood drenching my skin, and my enfeebled and trembling hands refusing to let go of the horn that will declare battle. At the end, I am left with a passionate hate that is unable to become tamed--a rebellious flame consuming the dried leaves of a forest ground.
Anger and hate are two of the most inspiring feelings--never borrowed. Usually, I feel as if I am on borrowed time with love, and it is best not to begin when it is inevitably going to end. The fresh petals of love whither into hate, which ultimately grows the thorns of comforting cynicism.
Yet love ends no matter what we do, and at the end, that other half of us leaves. Even if roads are meant for journeys, they all contain destinations--endings.
Endings reveal all and make one realize the extent of their folly. What if I were to love again, and this time it wouldn't be as painful? Eventually, as the seasons change, our faces and bodies will age with each spring and winter. One day, wisps of gray hair will cover our faces, and lastly, one of our hearts will stop beating. Ultimately--and most naturally--one of us will stop breathing and fall into the whirlpool of heaviness, darkness, nothingness, and uncertainty known as death.
If we are all meant to be separated, why do we even join? Why should we grant someone the privilege of holding our hearts in sweet captivity? Why should I become a slave of life, waiting and waiting and waiting...
And I do wait; I wait under those stars consumed by white flames, I wait under the haunting leaves of autumn, I wait shivering with the winter's sharp breeze.
Yet, like any other human, I feel. That's not so difficult to admit--I feel pain, bliss, confusion, hatred...but such feelings are like summer tempests striking down on the placid ocean of my soul. Like natural occurrences, they fade and become placated. I become weary of feeling, and I become fearful of the hate and resentment that I hold to all of those that lied to me, and finally I scramble to find some truth--any truth. This will be a final attempt at convincing myself that something out there is not false, or blurred-to-omit-flaws like one of Monet's paintings. I finally find that the only thing I can be certain of is my own existence.
I breathe and feel and want and sob and bleed, and carry a heart branded and scarred by an internal scarlet letter.
So what should I do now after realizing the ultimate truth about "life"--we are all puppets on borrowed time. Yet, regardless of that, I have my words.
Regardless of that, I have my books--Melville, Thoreau, Kierkegaard, Sartre...
I have the damp smell of summer and the light scent of blooming orchids. My mornings and my walks, and the memories which continue to define me.
However, I am also complex and striving everyday to be sub-human. I no longer wish to be touched, for mankind disgusts me to no end.