The perfect mist ascended in a different way today and I learned to breathe on my own again. The valediction that had threatened never to arrive, did so, suddenly, overnight.
The merlot mystery cloud that shrouds your poisoned soul with intrigue and allure has disintegrated into nothingness.
And that black light, the one that projects your godlike image onto every wall of every chamber of my crippled heart, that hard, cruel light that keeps your image dancing through my dreams and swimming around my shredded veins and patrolling, steadfast, all along the watchtower of the prison of my brain on a mesmerising, sickening, never-ending loop: that black light has been turned off.
Now my world is dark but in a lighter way. All our flames have been extinguished and I send the smoke away. I don’t know who pulled the plug, who shut us down, who turned us off. But it’s over.
Your transparency has become clear to me. I see you and I see through you.
My deluded vision of you has fallen apart after so many years of dedicated worship, so many years of defending you, so many years of never quite being yours. They are taking down your statue as I write this.
The haze has lifted and all the thoughts that I harbour about you saving me have evaporated quietly. I wrote your smile in the clouds before the storm came and ripped it to pieces then spat it out in some faraway ocean, leaving it to drown with the other chunks of deleted smiles.
Nothing fills the spaces that you once inhabited. My personal abyss belongs to me once more, just it did before, before, before. I don’t need your voice or your hands anymore, I’ve scrubbed your words of wisdom off my crumbling inner walls.
I gratefully occupy my silent tubular nowhere. I have smoothed out all the sharp corners of this rusted cage so that you have no place to hide. I’ve wiped your hallowed fingerprints off the lenses on my eyes. I can see and I see through you.
You are no longer godlike but rather ghostly, a figure who once had command of every cell in my body, who has since fallen from grace, who will try to haunt me in hallways and stairwells, to rattle me with surprise appearances and misplaced affections. You are only the ghost of a man who was once great. I now see clearly that you are just as empty and hollow as me. And someone who is dead inside cannot be the one to give me life.
Originally published on Hijacked Amygdala here [12/08/16].