Let these pages be the stairs to our undying love and appreciation for one and other; may you never miss a step, and if so, I will catch you – over and over and over again…
Once upon a time there was girl filled with pure beauty – compassion exuded from the orifices of her naïve skin. She was a true artist, a human beyond most, truly in touch with what made her tick, what gave her heart pleasant palpitations. She was a rebel and brazenly unconformed to what was expected of her, what wasn’t her – she was the hero of her own soul, she never wanted to die – she saw death and knew that wasn’t for her. She despised the idea of the becoming a ghost. She truly didn’t want to be the “dead undead” – she once said: “Life wouldn’t be life without what I truly desire to do – not what others desire me to do, but what I choose to do.”
She spoke courageous words and meant them – the more child-like she was the more destined for perpetual greatness she was to be. Wise words and an adamant sense of Self was constantly reaffirmed through genuine beliefs and values developed inside herself and outside the conformed order where she was raised – “If I give up on my dreams, on my passion, if I become like everyone else – remind me of who I am. Don’t ever let me forget, don’t ever let me be like everyone else…” said Girl.
This “Girl” remains nameless. She will remain nameless until she finds herself once again – this story is simply about a girl named ‘Girl’. She lost her name when she looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. The dilemma became an existential crisis. I felt her pain because I was her. I knew what it was like but I didn’t know how dark the poison truly ran. I was able to rise above, to find meaning in my suffering. I was aware that the Girl was born to truly demonic witches but it had never crossed my mind that she might become one as well. There are good witches and there are bad witches – they wanted her to become a bad witch; a destroyer of society, a judge among the humans, isolated from herself and a prisoner of her own identity. They attempted to carve her path since birth and she did not want that path. That killed them, they’ve been able to put a spell on everything and everyone in their realm but how can they control what is uncontrollable? – And until Girl lost her name, she was truly uncontrollable.
And you may ask who I might be, who am I speaking upon this young girl’s behalf – I’m boundless, I’m without time, conception, and even a name; I would say I’m kin to the Tao but that wouldn’t be accurate because the Tao knows no name. My innate nature thrives inside you – a matter of fact: it is you. I’m beyond your subconscious and even your consciousness. I’m a lost soul but I’m also whole. I’ve lived millennia and still experience things like knew – I’m a child but I’m also a mature fully blossomed tree. I’m part of Girl’s soul but I myself am lost too. I’m missing my other half, I’ve bled out quite a bit but I hunger to survive. I’ve stitched myself but the scar is deep, it’s tender and the damage has reached its center. I will live, but, like Girl, I see myself differently. I know that I must become greater than a scar but I seek penance. I must confront the knife that stabbed me; I must face the shear blade and look at my true Self in the reflection, remembering who I was before the slice – reminding myself that there was life before I became severed – there was life before I became a Desolate Soul.
Tears flow from her eyes as she frantically sits alongside her bed, with whimpering cries being her only friend. She rises and looks to her mirror, hoping that her reflection would soon grow clearer.
“I hate you! You’re hideous,” she screams; such a pure beauty with a vision unclean.
The sun would shine that next morning despite the young girl’s perpetual yearning. ‘Twas a new day, a new state and hopefully an invisible cauldron of self-hate.
“When I leaned over to look at my rippled reflection in the lily covered pond, I see someone with a vision forgone; never a girl and never a boy – I see a broken angel, a shattered toy.”
“I walk the halls and no one ever knows; a dark cloud, torn and tethered clothes – barely even a sight for sore eyes; an invisible blanket cloaked with tears that I cry.”
“I daydream while I sit in class – the teacher drools on and on… and waddles her ass; I gaze to the night sky under an umbrella, rain drops fall and my eyes begin to swell; I hear a voice in the distance – tis the one that I seek. Is it my own? Or simply my dream has gone weak.”
And so she sleeps with the counted sheep, an endless dream that she wishes to reap. A confused mind with no time, when her head hits the pillow she dreams of sleeping willows – each hanging vine beholds a different place in time.
And though her shadow sits upon the wall while raindrops peck, it seems the only time peace consumes her and when her eyes wake there’s nothing left. She speaks from her dream: “It seems the only time that I won’t fall is when I’m fast asleep and staring at the reflection of the Northern lights projection – guiding me to myself in the land of obscurity, lifting me up and giving me purity.”
“Lonesome little star, we’re not so different from one and other; shining so bright, waiting for someone to admire our beauty – little do we know that it’s only our duty. They yell, they shout, they scream – yet in the crowds it’s a distraction unseen.”
The young girl sits and writes, a wayward poet, a drunken night; the moon is upside down and blood red – the unconscious monster of spry words unsaid: “…and so the night awaits me while my thoughts hate me – shall I escape and forever seal my fate?”
“Many times throughout the day I look to the sky to find my way – “A young girl in a cruel world,” so they say; my feelings have come to haunt me – habitual thoughts, the have’s and have not’s have once again come to haunt me.”
“I run to the water and stare at my reflection; a rippled thought and my mind of the wreckage. They taunt me and exclude me but I don’t let it confuse me – I’m a star, closer to the moon and shining brighter than they are. A note to the one who loves me: my dreams, my visions, are all from above me.”
As she walks through the woods and counts her steps, pondering the thoughts of what’s left; she stumbles upon a glowing wand – and a frightening witch singing a torturous song: “Death will find you, death runs through you – may your heart spoil and your soul turn cold blue; you ruined me once and killed my voice – you disappeared and left me without choice.”
“Another day passes while I look for you, staring at the black sky until it turned blue – if we could live infinite then how spoiled would we be? We have the mind of a dreamer and the body of a tree.”
“Dear no one, free me from this prison – I write you daily but no one seems to listen; I speak your name as if I’m insane – and sometimes when I look into the mirror, I forget your name. They say ‘If you have something to say they’ll listen, but if you never speak you’ll forever be missing.’”
“You’re endlessly lost and at what cost? All is just an illusion; it’s not just the hours of sleep that you’re losing – the purpose is deeper than the roots that are growing; it’s more than the meaning, it’s more than the knowing.”
It seems the reflection told all, it was beyond a telegram and beyond a crystal ball – the young girl turned witch, filled with hatred inside, lost because of society with blood in her eyes. She saw into the future, she saw it perfectly clear; Death is an Angel – she was living in fear. Bitterness and anger, hatred and regret, losing her sense of self, erasing what is left. A change must be made to erase the cards that have been laid – her reflection has grown much clearer, no longer in love with herself but a realization much nearer. For too long she’s been here or there – for too long she’s been prisoner and no longer can she bear.
And though she had a look of fear in her eyes, a look of madness finally subsides; a lover, a nurturer, untamed from the scorned – a free life she seeks, but it can only be yearned.
The witch arises from the muck and chants: “I’ll destroy you, conquer your deepest fears – I’ll make you understand being human by shedding your tears,” as she hovers above the pond – the girl is in awe but not too far gone. “You’ve stopped me in your tracks – such flawless beauty but with a wounded back; you carried me with you for all these years, now let me go and embrace your fears.”
The young girl opens her eyes and releases her tears; the forest then breathes and the wild ones cheer – self-realization has the power to erase all of time and all of past – it’s within oneself that we can last.
“If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s you,” said Girl. This was a familiar saying and the last thing I heard before I buried the ghost, the witch and the knife. At a time in my life, this sincere affirmation became a hoax, a fairytale, and like most, I was attached to the happy ending. And now as I sit and gaze to the sunset, my fingers dirty, my palms callused from digging your burial – I laugh at the spell that was put on me. I bury you crying and laughing; I see you for what you are – a witch isn’t to be burned but only to be buried. Being in ashes is a gift; it’s a present to the Earth, once again bringing you back to your roots, back to the dirt. Being buried is a sacrament of the tortured soul – the murderer will not see the light of day nor shall they ever fly again with the graceful wind. They shall perish and then be reborn, either to re-embrace their ghostly and wicked eternal recurrence or to truly embrace their truthful eternal recurrence, their mortality, their humanity, to become who they are destined to be – ecce homo.
The archer becomes much more reliant on their breath after he’s missed several targets, running out of arrows, and then becoming starving – every target becomes a meaning to his existence, thus his aim becomes more concise, his breath becomes deeper, his bow more agile, his legs much looser – as he releases that arrow he knows he cannot call it back, he’s made his final decision. And whether the arrow hits or misses, the damage will be done to both the archer and his target – the attempt, whether succeeded or failed, will be a memory earned.
Girl knows the archer thus she is the archer. The Desolate Soul also knows the bow and the arrow; it turns out there was no knife, no blade, it was a blind arrow that split them in two – it was a violent surprise. The Girl’s words are her poisonous arrows and once she released them she couldn’t call them back – they stuck and forever will. The poison ran through the Soul’s veins as he writes this story – he is dead now and I speak upon his behalf. The girl never found herself, though, she thought she did – she stayed a wicked witch and remained the living dead.
Who writes this story now? It is I – and I am a new man, I am you.
When two souls come undone,
The mighty whole
Darkness may be frightening,
And solitude you may fear –
The answer is very simple,
The map is in your tears –
It’s also all around you,
And you’re a part of it all;
Don’t cover your ears
Tends to call.
2019 © Michael Angel Loayza Jr. Support my books!