November 3, 2009
The Finity of Vacuity
Xxxxx is crying again.
If the eyes are the windows to the soul,
then hers are the smashed panes
of a derelict home,
filthy net curtains,
flapping in the late autumn gusts.
Her eyes are not their usual,
attractive hazel,
but rather the black,
black eyes of sharks.
With the disturbing vacancy
of a sleepwalker.
I wish there was something I can do to help.
My arms hang conspicuously at my sides, twitching with guilt.
I know from personal experience,
that there is nothing really that can be done,
but waiting for the tide of tortuous biochemicals,
to ebb,
and to stand on the shore,
shouting words of encouragement,
‘Keep treading the water!’, ‘It doesn’t last forever!’ and other clichés.
Moreover, her blackness is so bereft of light,
so near (but not close) to the passive violence of absolute zero,
so much like a black hole,
sucking in all matter, all energy, all protons,
that come close to her,
I fear that if I were to reach out,
I would lose my fingers, my hand, my whole arm.
An arm I would give if it would cure this.
‘Nothing lasts forever’,
not the depressive attacks;
and there is some ultimate comfort in knowing that
not me, nor Xxxxx will last forever,
nor the seas on the crust nor Earth itself,
nor the vast universe.
A universe that seems to fill so easily with a tiny individual’s pain,
perhaps the fastest velocity that can be measured is not light after all,
but the dark.
