There was rage in her eyes, unfiltered fury and contempt. Violence was the tool of her salvation. I can forgive to a certain degree but I will never forget. Her face distorted with rage. Bottom lip curled under the top. Forehead wrinkled prematurely. No reason penetrating that thick shell. Shell of what I cannot say. Yet her eyes burnt with hell to pay.
Sometimes, when I am alone and the stillness of nights overcomes me I try to understand. I try to reason her rage out; hoping that by understanding hers I can prevent my own. Was it impotence in an aggressive world? Was it struggling to no avail, barely being able to feed and shelter us? Was it mental illness or ignorance? More than anything the fear of becoming that is what drove my desire to be better.
Very rarely I see an inkling of the thing. Some darkness hiding just out of the corner of my eyes. Some monster waiting to swallow me whole. Other times I can see the same horror in others.
The stars blur and bleed white light for me. A billion years of time passed and still I feel as though they burned for me. Twinkling lights needling their way into my brain. Then I ***** specks of perceptions and philosophy about the stars and how they relate to my existence. Their transient nature, nurtures my broken heart. That is how I turn pain into beauty.
They say Van Goh suffered greatly, but channeled his pain into beautiful works of art. Such agony surrendered to the canvass. No peace for him and little for me as well. This human hell is my sick shell of an existence. I have no canvass. I have no brushes nor paint to mask my wounds.
I do have love. Not as a matter of tangible fact, but as an abstract. I love the world, as I keep it safely at a distance. I love life, mine and all that progresses from single cell to the bipedal. Above all else I love words. This flesh and mind is a cage designed by evolution with no purpose in mind. Time is a linear progression that plagues me with uncertainty. There is no stillness or permanence. Only me walking backwards while I move forward, a contradictory *****. Pain is a plague of memories, things past never to be changed.  Agony and apathy dull the better heart of me.
So how do I turn the tragedy in to beauty? Last night I saw deer sitting on either side of the road. Perhaps they were siblings nervously awaiting the other. Eyes a radiant yellow, reflecting my oncoming headlight. I slowed to avoid startling them. The one on the right tried to conceal itself in the darkness of the ditch. The few on the left just sat and waited for it.
Then just as I passed the deer I saw a small possum casually crossing the road. I stayed my course but slowed. I watched his sly eyes turn towards me warily, then he finished his journey, safe and sound.
There was peace in those moments. The beauty and wonder of love and curiosity. I could almost sense the child in me glowing and grinning. The next six hours were rank with the loneliness of human existence. I could not drag contentment from it’s ***** corner.
Now the midnight sky gives way to a new day’s sky. Layers and shades of dark blue, prune purple, white, light blue, and back to dark blue paint the sky beautifully. I play some instrumental music to sooth me. But burning in my stomach is that same ache, the one that I can’t shake. I try to sustain the illusion to create something beautifully human and transcendent.
I wonder is this a lie or a worthy distraction.
I have watched the lines in time. A permanent progression pushing towards blackness. Each phase a shedding of something old, to be replaced by a younger older self. Forgetting to remember, remembering to forget. Shades and tense becoming jumbled in a trillion phases and transitions. Is this the vein that I mine gold from? Is this how I turn pain into beauty?