Mind And Heart Agony

 

In the end, as the dust settled and the storm passed, the poet was still distant from his star.

It was far away, lingering somewhere out in the immensity of space, shining dimly in a white light that only he could see through his thick eyes.

He waited for it, prayed for it to come back, but just as the earth constantly revolved around the sun, the star revolved around his world; always moving, yet never coming close to touching distance with him.

He had fallen captive to his own desires, a slave of his two passions: his mind and his heart. And as he watched his dreams grow bigger, their immensity filled his world, and they soon turned to indomitable nightmares, which his heart had once banished.

He erred in that place, longing for existence, as his soul levitated in free space, filling up the void that had culminated into a perfect nothingness of the mind.

He was empty, hollowed inside and out, yet he remained transparent to his faithful star, which still lit up his world even with the dimmest spark.

He moved into space, but felt gravity; he was still human, and in an exorbitant place such as this, his powers were limited. He could not revolve, he could not move freely; instead, he could only float and allow himself to gently be carried away, stroked by the heavenly dust that flew into the vastness of the universe.

His mind was a deserted palace, an abandoned kingdom; once deemed priceless, it was veneered by visiting hopefuls who sought to drink from its mythical fountain said to quench the thirst of any soul. Today, all that was left of it was a dried up well, which consumed its remains to form a deep pit where his inner demons would rest.

His heart, once pure and united, had been divided into chambers, each sealing a piece of his darkness. Inside it laid a labyrinth that would force the mightiest of warriors into submission.

The memories that gathered there over the years, buried and treasured deep within it, soon began to burn in a flash and turned into sour ashes that evaporated in the ominous winds of its chambers.

It was no longer a sanctuary, no longer a refuge; it had become a dungeon, a torture rack that he would carry with him throughout his life.

His only weapon was his word. But the silence had devoured his words and rendered him powerless in the face of a glass which portrayed his perfect imperfections and exposed his cruel self.

He was betrayed, and as he eclipsed from the world, he felt his shadow leaving his side; he was alone, with no one beside him and nothing to hide behind.

The glass was powerful, and it poured darkness in his soul; a darkness so distinctive it had become a part of him like an infectious leach which feeds on a body.

The darkness spilled into his body and filled it until the whole saturated; but the glass kept injecting until it was abruptly interrupted by a revolving star.

The shiny particle orbited freely in the open space, twirling around the scene as if it were a performer showcasing his abilities.

The glass grew frustrated with the impeding light coming from the star; a few cracks on its top end weakened its hold on its captive.

The poet, numbed by sorrow and sadness, observed quietly as he was still subdued by the dark force. The star, meanwhile, approached him and entered the chambers of his heart.

It moved across the labyrinth, lighting its pathways, eradicating dusty walls that stood mightier than a fortress, making its way to its very core where the hidden treasure remained.

It liberated the memories and the gush of feelings which exploded into a melodious harmony that sang the praise of the fallen poet.

But the star wouldn't end there; it made its way up into the poet’s mind, accessed the palace through its main gate, and in one shiny glow restored its riches. The place looked a hundred years younger, while the star burned a thousand times brighter.

The poet felt the light shining inside him; his demons cried for mercy, his shadow was banished from the dark realm, and darkness had left him.

He got back on his feet and stared into his glass. The cracks were deeper, and the mirror shackled and cracked all the way through the centerpiece; the image was broken, and darkness sought another refuge.

An explosion of words from the poet’s feather smashed the glass into pieces which separated into the four corners of the world, never to be reunited again.

The poet, master of his dreams and bearer of his fortunes, took charge of his destiny once again, and rose among the stars. The shiny particle that once eluded him was well within his reach.

The naive man, baffled by this turn of fortunes, stretched out his hand to grasp it and swore to hold on to it tightly. But the star would run through him and repose in his empty heart, lying in a pure core of tranquility and serenity.

The poet cried tears of joy as he made his way back to his world. He embraced the land and thanked the skies, for he had found in him a treasure so powerful, so valuable that even if the universe as a whole would conspire to reach it, it would fail dramatically.      

For the treasure he would later refer to as his inspiration was a part of him that he had lost throughout the blissful years, but gained and nurtured invaluably through the darkest of hours.

For the first time he felt safe, deprived of emotions and out of words. He stood there as the world passed him by, and etched a smile on the corner of his cheek.

For the first time in a poet’s life, his heart and mind were at peace.

He felt happy.