For Those Who Would Not Know Me

I would write of that which I cannot see.

I would express the fears within me, the groans that wrack my physical frame, though the pain exists on some other plane. I would express the noises that haunt me through night and day, but the cacophony of the world around me is too great! If I walk through life with my head down you must not feel concern, nor need to comfort, for my torment does not spring from that which may be comforted. It comes from a dark area, where all is in shadow until it may be revealed by the light at the end of days. Until then it is a void, meaningless, a shapeless beast that I must love and despise and never find, for though I seek it endlessly I cannot lay a finger there! Where does this bottomless portal lead, where is its end? I cannot even find its beginning.

I would write like this forever, but I know that it is wearisome to read of nothing and so far nothing is all I have written. It is easy to describe a thing, but how does one write of an empty space? How does one describe a shadow save that it is without detail and mirrors that which forms it? That is it, then, the thing I seek. It is elusive and shifts from time to time, and though I chased it forever I fear I would never catch it. Such a chase is exhausting. Could I pour my entire self into the hole perhaps I would finally find rest, but as I live my resources are chained to other things as well. There are people to be smiled at, paths to be trod, and time to keep. Emotions must be constantly pampered to as each occasion requires I feel sympathy, grief, joy, excitement, wonder, interest, concern. All of this energy could be spent in pursuit of the shadow, but instead I must spend it on what amounts to dust to me, because I am told that is right. And as the two worlds stretch farther apart they also draw closer together and my mind becomes more muddled.

Certain things in one begin to mirror the other, and I reach out desperately and cling to them as if they are what is real and solid and therefore all that may be held onto. Yet at these times I am most distraught, for as the other world draws near I begin to think that I might see things, feelings become more intense, and I am so close, so near to understanding that I pour energy eagerly in that direction, flailing inside my head, so to speak. But for all my efforts I can never fully grasp it, and so I return to this life exhausted, with my resources completely drained, though there may be no visible reason for my weariness. At these times I want nothing more than nothing, for if I had nothing then when I collapse in the grass and stare at the sky for hours, nothing would be lost. But life insists on thrusting much into my arms, so I have no choice but to keep walking, to go here and there and divvy out what is left of me in measured amounts, a rationing of emotion that requires my attention even as my thoughts wander back to what was lost.

And just what was lost? you ask. Just what are the questions that need answering, the questions that are searched for? I cannot tell you that, for they are a part of the shadow. I have uncovered a few of the questions over the years, but no answers yet. I have still not found my footing in this other plane and I fear that I will not do so until the end. So if you see me walking with my head down, or with a dazed look in my eyes, if I speak to you in distraction, do not worry yourself over me. I am afflicted, yes, but this affliction will last for the duration of my life here and only at the end will there be release. How often does this happen? you ask. I could not tell you. Some days not at all, while other days I am consumed, usually without warning, though with experience I may see it better. So do not be concerned, for there is nothing your concern may accomplish. This is my unknown fate, and were it any less of an emptiness there would be less of me.