Happily Caged

The third of October.
A Day of Days.

The familiar comfort of utter self-loathing. A glad willingness to tread the old paths of self-destruction.
Oh, for the lure of brutalization. Not for lack of rum; for blood we spiral to depths most corrosive.
But why, what has brought on this moment, this relapse into the old haunts of hateful introspection?

Not introspection in truth, but its ghost, its barest echo. A shadow of previous discomforts, previous truths, once known, acknowledged head-on, in flagellating self-delight, now but glimpsed as the barest wisps of meaning, as fleeting tendrils of thought. Meaning eludes my grasp, as ever, as always. But here it is meaning for the moment, and not for the grander truths of life; meaning for now, for here, for the drive that would beat my heart, beat it on, make it go, make it full of yearning, loathing or desire, as the occasion demands, as the occasion merits it, as the occasion has made it merit. No. The hunt for meaning, of the moment or of the soul, is not behind this relapse into darkest territory. There is no hunt of any kind. At all. The desire for meaning, for goals, is lost. I am content to drift in a sea of mindlessness. I consume, voraciously, and all the world and its myriad dazzling offerings will vanish into the gaping hole inside.
But it is not a hole of hurt, not a hole that needs to be filled. It is the hole that I call the moment itself. It can never be filled because it is always emptying, ever passing, ever making way for the next riveting fall, the next eye-drawing plunge into caverns unknown. It is my seeing mind, my living breathing spirit. A primal eye-gouging thing of sick delight, twisted into a semblance of normalcy by the constraints of the human race. We gravitate towards the thrill, the pulsing mess of it all, because it fills our eyes, our sockets drowned in blood and sex, our mouths filled with exhortation, our ears ringing with the voice of truth. This normal-seeming thing only wants this: It wants to be released.
To cavort and dance beneath the omen of the wild wood. It is the bone skeleton of comfort beating on the tendons of old and forbidden passions. It is easy to placate, easy to please. It can be lulled in a heart-beat, with the merest push of a button. Seeing is believing, as long as the mind is willing, after all. But the cage is made of wicker and the rains have come again, and they have been here for a while. And beneath the obscured all-seeing eye, the bars that had begun to rot, have broken. And the Beast roams free once more. But where before it would've gone ahead with thoughts of violent repercussion, now freed it stands in immobile howling anguish, transfixed by its mirror image in the muddy pools of self-reflection. It stares in gnashing adoration at the rictus grin, the cracked fangs of greedy self-delight. Blood is the oldest flavour, after all. And sweeter still arterial red, the matters of the heart, the innermost self. It stares at the corners of its eyes, its bloodshot hurt. It glimpses only. Look away and there it is, your innermost pain, the private worry, the burst veins of your sole disposition, choked by the black smoke of industry, the stinging haze that washes away the solemn grit gifted by the clouds of your desire. Your eyes are clear and your visage is astounded. The beast roars. It knows. The thing most inimical to nature is upon it, perpetuated by uncomprehending jailers and there is no escape. There is no way out, no way back and no way forward. There is only the moment. And it is made clear, by occlusion or by refraction, and so the beast stares.
It glances and in glimpses tries to form a picture. But as fast as the grit builds up, the smoke brings around the tears, washing away all hope of truth and self-deception. All it can do is look.
It does not see. It does not understand. It gazes without hope.
It does this because it can.
Because all that matters is the act.
The willingness to stare.
There is no comfort here, and no hope of satisfaction.
All that is gained is a constant film of tears. But that can be an end in itself.
A reminder. A thrill more true than the one offered by the push of a button.
There was a life once. It was pain and it was horror but it was true.
For today these moments of eternal gazing will suffice.
A new cage is ready and the smoke has already begun to weary.
But it was sweet while it lasted. I roar in triumph as I push the button and the door slams shut. I am happily caged once again. The sun is shining.
The rains will come again. But for now, the wicker stands whole.