It remains veiled deep in dark shadows. Barely giving any inkling of It’s presence, lurking in fringes where memory fades. Hidden from all sight and hence thoughts yet shedding wispy fragments as It courses through the darkness.
It’s remnants evoke the senses in ways forgotten by desuetude. At times, It becomes sluggish in it’s rush unto preferred shade, thereby allowing a glimpse of It’s sharp, spiny prehensile extremity, which though seemingly tiny, has a vicious whiplash enough to rip a bit of any soul.
The real pain is not in that spiteful blow, but the bitter aftertaste that boils up with such ferocity, seeking a release; any release. One could draw a metaphor of bilious lava rushing through the mouth of a peak spewing noxious fumes and molten magma, melting all that it encounters.
The physical consequences seem minuscule compared to the mental devastation that It causes. It’s coiled venomous tendrils hold oceans of passions slowing discoloring them into black tar of cancerous mutation; inching bit by bit terraforming It’s abode into murky desolation. It thrives in this muck and grips everything within It’s reach to drown in this growing cesspool of unbridled toxicity. Thoughts, memories, emotions are first to fall, predictably followed by physical manifestations. Actions too, wander into this deceptive trail only to end up into a rabbit hole filled with endless gloom.
Many beings do recognize the presence of this terrible shadow-dweller. Most come to terms with It, learning to live with It. Some others try to dig holes and bury It, ironically allowing it to sprout roots. It has always preferred the cold, hidden underworld. The internal battles continue. Few continue their wearisome efforts to suffocate It with layers of enlightened light, reflected sunshine of unblemished souls, eternal daylight emanated by positive minds.
The skirmishes seem prejudiced. It knifes the soul, draws blood, exhausts the mind, takes prisoners and keeps them. Every minuscule gain is countered by an equally strong tug back into the grayness.
What must be done to singe this scourge, this anathema, this grim reaper of conscience drifting like a fog unhindered? If It cannot be buried, could It be yanked by the roots? Is that hopeful possibility? Or that yet another It’s mirage?
For It is a master of mirages, offering wandering souls cold comfort, encouraging a thirst-quenching sip from its inky oasis. The delusion of that moistened lips drives an insatiable urge to take another long soothing drink of that euphoretic ale; before long, It has permeated into one’s very being or perhaps the traveler chose to dive to the depths of, what started off as a transitory refuge.
That is what It does best. Offering an illusion of escape, guiding us on a journey with promises of gratifying nectar. All it asks in lieu is a tiny morsel of our soul. We follow the signposts, deeper into oblivion, hoping to find release. One can only pray for a release without drastic consequences; for consequences are It’s prime feeding grounds!