“Are you sure? Are you sure I’ll get through this? I don’t know where I am. I don’t know which way is up or down.” He pleads.
It’s tragedy. The place he should have been safest, wound up being his prison. Not of the physical kind. These prison walls aren’t tangible. They aren’t stone or steel. Nor are they pliable or movable. Their hold is as strong as Alcatraz and horrific as the unimaginable torture chamber.
He’s in a very real hell, a warped reality. His hell is a vivid portrayal of a hopeless prison buried on a lonely island in the darkest of night surrounded by pain, anguish and horrifying tales of life. A cold dark shroud hangs over him unlike any storm cloud known to man. He’s trapped, buried in his own mind. A mind that is both beautiful and demonic, brilliant and demoralizing. Its the perfect storm.
He’s lost and fallen, or rather falling. The fall is slow and exhilarating, yet lonesome and embracing. Two halves of an incredibly bittersweet whole. Yet, its hell in the very real intense sense. A black fire burns and consumes the very essence of his hope.
He continues a free fall into a dark abyss of loneliness. The world around him watches his downward spiral fairly unawares of the destiny that awaits him. Unaware of his plight. He hides the very deepest of his circumstances behind a mask of eccentricity. He loves, he cares, and he serves unconditionally those around him. That is, when his own mind doesn’t swallow up his intent.
He reaches out for help, but ignorance leads the blind and soulless. Besides, his calls for help are not as recognizable to the human eye. One must see through his mask, recognize his pleas and reach out with a lifeline of love and understanding.
But alas they see him, but don’t see him. Dry and meaningless words of encouragement fall short of their destination. Where is that destination? Falling, failing, and trapped in a world of shear madness.
His prisoned mind drives insanity. He falls further, deeper. It swallows him whole and spits him out into the abyss only to scream at him again. Madness drips from the edges of his mind, deep into nothingness.
It’s a terrible never ending cycle, this falling. He falls, is swallowed up, spit out and falls again. Over and over again. He knows his hell. He realizes his plight and finds it easier to succumb, with reckless abandon, to the chains that pull him down rather than fight it. He’s tired, exhausted from fighting.
He begs the unseen gods to take his life, but is met with only silence and cold. No saving death, no rainbow to point to the welcome sun.
Then, he sees birds. Could it be they bring an inkling of hope? They flutter from below, up through the spiraling abyss. Their song is welcomed at first, however he notices how hollow their song sounds. It isn’t a song of hope, rather one of teasing. They mock and warble, mimicing the song of hope from the great beyond. Their song intensifies and strengthens the darkness instead of breaking its hold.
“What is this song they sing? Why must they mimic my plight?” He groans. “Leave me to my misery. Go away!”
They flit and they flutter all around him, singing a song of beautiful death never to be realized. They mock and tease him in his face. His hell is now complete.
Then, out of the depths of his madness, a scream. The sound resonates with power and might. Its a terribly beautiful sound that rips the fabric of the dark abyss. It isn’t a song, nor is it entirely pleasant, but it exudes warmth and hope.
Out of the depths, he sees a black form emerge. It glides with power. It’s a blur at first, but takes form and shape as it rushes toward him. There is no grace to the way it moves, but it radiates with confidence and intelligence.
A raven, black as night, and terrible, brings an inkling of hope. The scream, he realizes, is a screeching caw. It’s brilliance and power shreds the mocking birds into a billion lifeless feathers that burn in an instant to ash.
She appears, for he sees into the depths of her eye that she is she, as an angel as much as she is a raven. She carries hope on her wings, a glint of light in her eye, unconditional love in her wake. He looks into the depths of her midnight eyes and feels a comfort he hasn’t felt. He loses himself and slides into an alternate reality for a moment.
Her powerful talons reach for him, and grasp his flailing arms. She flings him onto her back and soars through the spiral. He looks around, suddenly aware of his surroundings.
Darkness prevails, the storm rages, but hope now replaces his desire for death. There is no end to the abyss, there is no rainbow. On the wings of hope, he sees that he must remain in the darkness. However, his madness is held at bay. He sees with a clear purpose.
On his raven he rages forward. On wings of power he relishes his plight. No more a prisoner to his hell, rather a captain of his ship. The prison walls crumble and fall. The tortuous prison gives way to an open sea of life. His escape is true.
He cannot leave the island of his mind. On the wings of his raven, his muse, he can navigate his madness and his hell with a black fiery fury in his hand.
He can create realities and worlds where he can escape to. There will be moments where the madness will slap him silly and drop him into a rushing sea of despair. More mockingbirds will return to laugh and sing their ridiculous songs of teasing death. But, to conquer is to create. To create is to survive. To survive is to enlighten.
The world will continue its oblivious ignorance of his plight. He will live on, and he will pass on like ashes in the wind.
He, his raven, a touch of madness and a darkened abyss.
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