‘A Me’ from the Hell in which I Reign
Ok … if I’m being real with you — whoever you are that reads this shit, under the smiles I wear as a mask in person and on social media are pains that are completely unbearable. One pain haunts me at nights; the other toys with me during days. And they’re different types of pain too. At night it’s damaged nerves, piercing like steel pins pulled from Hell’s fires by devil hounds that set them straight to poking at me worse than laughter that mocks in the most humiliating moments. The other, during days, it’s tormenting thoughts that stab fiercer than those steel pins pulled from Hell. And the hounds, they sit, panting and drooling. They wait, knowing it’s this daytime pain that hurts the most and that I’ll retire each day as early as I can.
For you see — whoever you are … the way disappointment is measured by the distance between the greatest point of what was expected to be and the greatest point of what actually became, so too is despair measured at the greatest points of what was and what now is. And that gap between these two points — what was and what now is, for me, seems immeasurable.
For what was was ‘a me’ that was mobile, strong, and flexible. What was was ‘a me’ that slept near lakes and rivers and played on mountaintops, ‘a me’ that created all my own conquests. Brick by brick, layer by layer, I laid the path before me and then strutted and skipped upon it like a brainless, heartless fool full of courage. I worked for my own and asked no one for shit. I did everything I wanted, had any lover I wanted, whenever I wanted, and I was never for want of anything. And of course, I held education high upon a burning torch that blazed guidance through it all.
What is now is ‘a me’ that is withered and weak, with shattered bones and repulsive scars. No rivers or lakes or mountaintops, just ‘a me’ that can barely walk with a cane from my sick bed to the place where I shit. No path of conquest, just a busted ass brick road headed toward this OZ in dismay. What is now is ‘a me’ that cannot work and is dependent on those around me for everything. And since I can barely retain what I read anymore, the torch that once guided me through it all is now only as good as a twig with a tip of embers reminiscent of what was once to be.
By the light of this empty torch, I hide in all the darkness. Crouching in the corner of my room, broken hearted, I weep — balling my eyes out, hoping those that take care of me don’t hear. And then I wonder: am I purging anything or just sulking in the suck of it all? Is this cathartic or adding to the infection? What is this now if not ‘a me’ that I cannot accept? Because I simply will not accept this as ‘a me’. It’s just not who I am. In fact, what is now is not ‘a me’ at all, nor is it any type of ‘a me’ that I ever want to be. And there is no gap between these two things — what I am now and what I don’t want to be, so there is nothing here to measure at all.
But rest assured, you — whoever you are, I do dry my eyes at some point. I learn to cope with these pains — their barking and laughter, they become war drums and symphonic music combined into a tune that encourages me to stand up and march toward the challenges ahead. I find strength in knowing that my body was shattered, and yet it still remains unbroken. And I’ll walk away from this mess — this fucking mess that so many would have perished by. And my heart will mend the same as my bones now callused over and with plates of steel: stronger than ever before. This twig with embers will set sparks to flames that become a Hell from which I reign. And I turn this catharsis into a new religion and create for myself a god that revels to me what actually is the most immeasurable distance: that which will be measured from the greatest point of this current me to the greatest point of the me that I will eventually become.