Walk The In-between where
it rains, lukewarm,
from overcast heavens –
omnipresent silver gaze desaturating,
smooth like velvet.
How those endless skies weep endlessly for you,
fine mist descending upon you
sense of absolution, fog of forgetfulness
and you can’t feel the rain puddling
in the ditches of your collarbones
for how faintly it caresses your body
Finally – let it wash away those jagged clusters
of salt crystals from your lashes
Follow your feet
you know where they lead you:
away from glaring light and midnight sky, to somewhere softer:
Amble towards it and believe your own fiction:
You yourself chose this – willingly.
You weren’t drawn by the same ripcurrent,
having towed you here countless times,
each journey into the fog
more lingering than last.
You will be here just a minute-
not an instant more.
But truthfully, you are following your own footsteps,
tracing lines already worn thin.
You’ve dwelt here before
You fear you’ll not escape this time:
Purgatory is not novelty
to you, traveller.
this well-traveled path
to tender oblivion
– inevitable –
to The In-between.
And on your pilgrimage
you conveniently forget,
perhaps on purpose,
how the dim lights seep –
like seawater does
into fibrous hulls of sunken ships –
inevitably, steadily, invisibly –
into your own eyes, how they too grow dim
cataracts of algae
you feel ancient as the seafloor, silty
cold, untouched, untouchable, stagnant;
half-hope to stagnate here awhile
See, you frequent this hell because
when you finally break free,
you remember only the comfort
dismissing how desperately you crave
the absolutes and colours and emotions
black white blue and red
The state of existence – how you miss it
when all is suddenly grey
Yet here you are, again
meandering, lost, again
you are exhausted, again
rest your weary eyes, dear
But – by God, child – do not fall asleep here
Sometimes, difficult realities felt deeply can become overwhelming, the most comforting solution being sinking into a fog of numbness. Existing, but not really. A greyed-out version of life, not sad but certainly not happy either. And this state of being can become addicting, a sort of self-comfort, but it is not reality; it is depriving oneself of real joy. Accepting the disastrous consequences of existing this way can be difficult, but escape is even more taxing – once liberated from this nothingness, colours and lights seem harsh. After too little, it is too much all at once: joy, sadness, sunbeams, love, hate, inspiration… Here is where the cycle of feeling and numbness begins: feel too much and crave peace, feel too little and crave something real. To cope with the relatively magnified realities, each dangerous journey to the “In-between” lasts a little longer than the one before. Perspective becomes skewed when dancing between these extremes, a balanced middle-ground becoming nearly impossible to inhabit. And this is why the nothingness becomes so enticing; it is a reprieve from its only exhausting alternative. This is why I continue returning to it knowing well I may not be able to leave.