The end of all things

I can’t find a way forward.  Things are grinding to a halt.  Months ago, I wanted to finish things, finish up my life so I could be reborn.  Or not.  Now even the enthusiasm for that has gone.  Projects sit uncompleted; my life unsolved. 

I shrink from the bright blandness of the day.  I impel my ragged mind into the syrupy entanglement of the dream, but to find the mists shredded in baking drought.  My imagination barren, and a great fear lurks in the corners of my view.  Afraid to sleep, afraid of the dreams I can’t remember. 

Trapped between past and future.  Between running away and nowhere to run.  Between desperation and devastation; the devil and the deep blue sea.  Afraid there are no answers but my own, and my own too awful to contemplate. 

I have blamed absence for this barrenness.  The fragments of creation spurn me.  I have called it abandonment, rejection, but it is not so.  The thrumming voices ignored.  The warm concern turned aside.  I ache for the heart of the mystery, I tell myself.  I will not be comforted, not turned aside.  I will tear open the battery that powers this universe, the black poison spilling out. 

Hiding – or seeking – in the dreams that shrink from me.  I ignore the jeers of those who accept their lot, wiser, or richer, or more foolish than I.  I, who do not believe in the ground.  I refuse to put my feet on it.  I, I insist, must dive from the sky to learn what lies beneath the air.  If the earth exists, let me discover it face first, terminal velocity. 

Cackling dementedly I see, I almost see, that while hiding I have not found the truth, but the truth has found me.