Yet again, another long gap between posts. Yet again another apology that won't stop me doing it again 
. Anyway, hope you are all well and feeling good. I haven't got much in the way of new stuff, but that doesn't mean I can't attempt another quick bit of free writing.
Darkness Hidden
A planet. A ring of flame. A scorching heat none can avoid. The night sky is alight and there is pain awaiting the darkness of the world. And yet darkness persists in the lowest sections of the soul, those places where we dare not even admit to ourselves the things that go on. We hide them within and smile without, the emptiness they bring numbs the horror of what they are. And so even with the eternal burn of fire from overhead something unspeakable survives in the cores of those whom it effects the most. Do you know what it is I describe? Do you dare look so far down into your own thoughts, your hidden desires, your basic instincts, that place where you keep secrets even from yourself?
It's there. Within each of us. This unbidden potential for absolute despair. Despair in how we see ourselves. Despair in what it is we do to each other, what it is we do to innocents so much younger than ourselves, what it is we do to turn them into people just like us. How is it that the untouchable quality of children is so completely abolished, that complete trust, that immensely beautiful fragility, the essence that we all lose, that we all throw away in our hurry to become just like those who yearn to be young again.
How is the child buried? The compacted dirt pressing down on the chilling corpse, the birth of something hideous from the youngster's death. Is there an outside influence? A streaming hand covered in virgin blood? Or do we look down and discover that the crimson stain drips from our own fingers? Do we forge the knife and grasp the hilt, the blade reversed? Is that how it is? Is that how it must be? Is there anyone who can answer me or is the answer drawn down to that self same coffin beyond the reach of the fire? That area of horrors that houses the moments we wish we could forget, the thoughts we wish we could banish, the desires we would kill had we but the strength of ten thousand broken hearts, a strength that would take the pain of the world to achieve, a strength beyond the hands of any who would take hold, a strength hovering around each of those fragmented hearts, the bleeding pieces obscuring the very way to destroy everything they now hold dear, everything that hurts and everything that causes their own addictive pain.
Could we but hold it up to the fire. Can we not take hold of that darkness, that pain, the loss of all we use to hold close, the loss of everything we now envy in the eyes of those we used to be, those we hope to be, those we can be if only the fire would scour our hearts clear of pain, of obscuration, of anything that stops us seeing the power we hold in the shattered edges of ourselves. Then might we be able to revert, might we once again raise the coldness from the bodies of our youths? Is it possible to forget all we have learnt simply by holding our knowledge up to the light and casting it into the flames? Without the darkness is the resurrection of what we once were possible? Can we go back once more to a time when the darkness had not sunk so low in us, had not wormed its way down below the reach of light, of heat, of awareness, had not become such a part of us that we even deny its existence? Such a wonder is this hope, this simple thought of being as we were and never having been as we are, such a dream as perhaps no one has ever had since being a child and dreaming of the wonders to come, the wonders we now know to be nothing more than lost visions of joy everlasting, joy such as we had, joy we didn't recognise until it was too late, until now.
