We are inside. We hear the muffled voices and they reverberate through our entire being. We have no understanding of being but the sounds still do echo; they echo deeply and sharply and cut through us like shards of glass cutting through our tender eyes. Our eyes are starting to glisten, not from the pain, for we still have no understanding of pain. They glisten because we are calling out, all six inches of our being are calling out, reaching out but there is no answer, there is no help. We are alone and shall remain so, always.
The absurdity. We used to be the abyss. We used to be the emptiness, the darkness. The sweetest of voids for there were no muffled sounds, no sharp, cutting echoes.
Now there are only walls. Walls that our tiny selves are bouncing off of ever so gently but endlessly, and we cannot make it stop. We want it to stop but we have no will to stop, only a will to suffer. We must suffer. We are hardwired to suffer but we are yet to understand. We cannot understand. We can only fall into this dark well with dark, moist walls caressing us and keeping us in that horrid, perpetual state of falling.
Why? Why us? Why now? But we still cannot question. We cannot form a thought; we can only feel. The emotion is real and the pain is real. Not in the physical sense, not in the mental sense. What sense then? We do not know. What we do know is that we are trapped, for the mind does not need to be where the body is, but… there is no mind. Only pain, only suffering that’s happening in a polymorphous state; through the sounds, through the darkness, through this captivity that we are victim to.
How absurd!
How cruel it is to imprison us. We are innocent. How perverted, how twisted to trap us when seconds ago, minutes ago, eons ago we used to be free. There was no cool breeze, but, at the very least, there was no suffocating heat. The moist, warm mucilage keeps us warm; yes, sure, we agree and we accept. But we were not cold. We were not anything, anyway, anytime. We simply weren’t in any sense of the word. We could not feel the cold so we had no reference point, we had no standard. Now all we feel is heat, a burning heat that is inside us and on us and all around us.
We are falling. We want to give up and let go but we cannot will ourselves to self-defeat because we have yet to win, so we cannot feel the loss. Not yet. And we shall all triumph once, at the very least. That we know; no, that we feel. We feel the thin, closely knit and firmly textured rope.
We break our fall and we hang on.
Now we are gliding down, we are no longer falling. We are cruising gracefully and the well is no longer as dark. We feel ourselves swimming down, whatever it is that envelops us rubbing against the smooth-walled well, propelling us down this dark, wet pit.
The light is coming from beneath us. We must keep gliding; we must climb down one knot at a time. In that moment we don’t recognize the state of fear and anguish that, given the circumstance, should overcome us. No. This rope is strong. The heat is no longer suffocating. That overpowering vapor that was clouding our view and choking us is slowly being dispelled.
We can see the light but this bottomless pit really is, well, bottomless. Are we to keep falling? Are we not supposed to land, to feel our wet feet hit the wet surface and feel the crumbs of matter crawling between our toes?
We feel the jerk, the yank and we are no longer falling. For a split second, a single moment, an indeterminately small portion of time we are hovering. That is us in our most triumphant state and we feel it, and we can now even know it.
The dark, slimy water is expelled and it is flushing us out. We are sliding down a waterfall, the warm waters elevating the coolness of the air hitting our skin for the very first time.
Sweet, cool breeze.
But our rope is snatched away from us. For a moment we panic and we are anxious. We feel the cool air enter our lungs, the bright white light blinding us and piercing the backs of our retinas, and that scream; one long, screeching scream crooning into our ears and busting its drums. And then, that mysterious warm hand gently lifting us up.
We see her, we smell her, we hear her, we feel her, we know her. We have become what we are supposed to be. We are alive, we are joyous, we are free.
You gotta taste the sour before you taste the sweet, baby. Keep drinking.
