Schopenhauer Prodige

 “Who am I?”

The most ancient of questions;

A silhouette of man past? Or am I the shadow cast upon futures bright?

“Love yourself...”

 How can I love who I do not know? A stranger in my own flesh. Hidden in the crevices of my soul; a being I have no knowledge of.  His heartbeat faint but not fleeting; eternally echoing in the long hallways of my psyche.  Haunting whispers that sing eerie melodies to the night; reminding me of the horrors of my lad days. The shadows of innocence cast upon me; a twisted lullaby soothing my wounds septic.

How can I love whom, I fear? The hapless lad whose cheer and glee breaks my bones? Watching for the inevitable; where the viper would bite. Entwined in its hug deadly. My body drunk on its venom; slowly wasting to a husk. The light that warmed my heart now makes it squirm within my core. Light; the sign of terror. It removes my mask; the ugliness underneath. It lays me bare on the stage; proclaiming my state to these eyes thirsty! Like rodent on surgery table, to be split open- my entrails leaking. A freak for the sadistic pleasure of men predators. Life promises joy but what good is it? - A mere distraction; a mirage in desert hot. Free my battered limbs from this torturous cycle. A price that I paid with blood and sweat. An unjust penalty for a sin uncommitted. A lamb fallen from cliff steep onto ragged rocks. The ground below painted- red. It is twisted art- a paralysing sight to great and lowly alike. A grand mosaic made of bone- that splintered and crackled like kindling.

“Time heals wounds”

An adage spoken by men blind. Time makes one numb; severing the nerve of pain. It paralyses your being. Just because you cannot feel pain does not mean you are at peace.

Time; a cruel master. Its deadly whips lashing at us like field beast- like the deadly claws of a monster gripping our throats; swift move to meet our demise. Thinking that we are players but we are the pawns; mere objects- easily discarded like rags. Slaves to this plane of reality; bound and gagged by its superficial glamour.

Man regards himself master of destiny; the literal image of the divine. Holding himself to be like deities- Made to be just a little lower than them; from the clay. Professing humility in the latter- their wrongs claimed to be flaws of structure; part of their nature. The death of self-paramount for life. For when life is observed through reality, then can one live. Not for the superficial hope that lingers with despair: nor for the wishful thinking of a future bright. No- One lives when they can observe the nothingness before us- Staring into the abyss bottomless with a resolute tranquillity that the only constant of knowledge is the lack of it thereof. Viewing the inevitable doom as a necessary; A rite for all creation- living or dead. To view upon the unfathomable with ego destroyed- a face stoic; hands out in acceptance. The fight of life brought to its end. Not with a hymn triumphant or dirges sombre- But succinct and blunt. Like a dying wick on its last whisper of smoke- trivial. No gates of gold nor rivers of honey; just the cold but sure kiss of forever. The only sound the steady beat of your consciousness drifting to history past. A hum buzzing through the universe hollow; A dim beacon in the expansive.

Consoled that all regresses to the mean; All good and bad neutralise to a single point- A locus of nothing.

I feel nothing.

I am nothing.

That’s something-