Nyctophilia

I deliberately march through the valley of adversity
summoning demons from the darkness of the forest
Creating my own
Shivering, skin prickling
I breathe deep and close my eyes
before hewing them down.
It is brutal and beautiful.
Blood stains my grim smile until it’s washed away by tears
and I find myself in the swamp of self pity,
a land devoid of the flames of self worth,
barely a breath of love
You suffocate quickly.
I wouldn’t know
I escaped.
I survived.
Am surviving.

I always wake up from the dream at this point
when I realize that as beautiful as it all was
none of it was any more helpful than God since the New Testament
or LSD since the sixties
and that I am of this mortal world and must live with flaws and limits.
Why is that?
Why then, at that moment of triumphant realization?
I am a survivor.
There is no greater vocation for a human.

Why then?
I have pondered this question for a long time
not nearly long enough
Am pondering still.
Is it too powerful to comprehend, so count your blessings it’s a fiction?
Or
Not now, my son, wait until your time comes?
Or
You are not worthy ant, run home.
Or
Derisive laughter. How could this be anything more than a wishful fantasy?
Or
Gong. The adventure starts now.

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