Back in the day, when you were sitting in the benches of school, daydreaming, drawing your beautiful aspirations on the last pages of a notebook or engraving them onto your desk with the tip of a compass; back when you thought that, in just a few years, the infinite possibilities of an ideal world will open up to you and you will finally be able to enjoy settings you had envisioned, you thought you'd have control.
You will crave and you will search, voluntarily blinded by the risk of repeated disappointments.
Those ripe days and nights of ecstatically anticipating times of delirium to come, timeless times and limitless space, of fascination, smoke laces and magic...gone. Your ideal world ahead, everything was possible. You could lay with your nose poking upon the pages of a book all night long, living parallel lives, at your discretion...at your pleasure. Could afford to wake up after one hour's sleep, with the reminiscence of magic still pulsing through your cognitive muscles and nothing else around you would matter in the following hours. Could get lost, child as you were, in a sunrise you were secretly watching by the window after a secretly sleepless night, lost in music that resonated with your feelings to the point of perfection and carried you towards new ideas and dreams. In the creative process of a drawing, a melody, shape of a cloud, smell of old pages. You were sure life will reach it's hiatus one day, the romantic and the artist within had to rely on this.
You created obscure, semi-abstract images, the perspective of this world you lost yourself in and got too used to. All the freedom you can imagine would be at your feet, a realm without any authority or boundaries other than your own, nobody will hurt you anymore.
But, my dear, there comes a time when this thing called "reality" kicks in, and an invincible sort of boredom will end up taking it's toll on everything you used to be, together with the need and automated responsibility of survival, gradual resignation of becoming a tiny engine of society. This is all so meaninglessly fractional in the eyes of the Universe that any of it barely exists. But from your own eyes, it is everything, you are everything that you have, essence of the child determined to triumph and wanted to live in a different world.
And guess what? Along with years passing and the experiences they bring that are too heavily packed with "reality", you'll have lost a great deal of authenticity...you're tired. The ascending exhaustion will transform the hope of escaping into genuine obsession. You search for more, with sweat pouring down your face, eyes popped out and red, too focused to even blink, gaze fixed on some target hidden someplace beyond the portal between this life and That One. "There has to be more than this vapid, predictable world" - you say to yourself. Maybe you could take matters into your own hands, maybe there can be more for you here. Maybe you could somehow isolate from the ordinary and live in those dreamlands, to seclude the love between yourself and the Child in you, that is becoming your Ghost as you grow up. You don't want to share it with the surrounding world that you were born into. After all this time, you feel that it is still alive within, it exists...and you are selfish. After all, you've waited for too long for the two of you to finally live, the mundane has no place in this bond so idyllic and pure. In our terrestrial existence, it seems almost impossible to "merge the mundane and the magic" atfer all. You could finally fulfill the wishes of the person you once were. You could meditate in peace, you could fly again, you could touch those heights of a sinister beauty. You could...but you can't. The black hole of ordinary life is sucking away your blood, your energy, at the same time nailing your feet to the ground just so won't fly away, to continue being it's productive little engine. If you go your own way, you are useless. So you strive, with whatever is left, that unsatisfying quantity. The supreme frustration is that you must sweat blood for a little part of something that was natural, should've been natural.
Thirst for absolute takes over and you seek. You look for liberation, this allmighty evil entity, the great inhuman, in the darkest corners of humanity which you're still trapped in. But not for long. You look for it in the winding forests of your last hope, shrouded with the thorns and carress of the unknown. At least the unknown can restore your perspective of unbounded possibilities that you once held on tight to. You almost want to take refuge in an infinite journey, to keep on searching. At least it feels much better to look forward to something, than look back and return to find the same you ran away from. Hand in hand with your Ghost, your absolute love, you proceed deeper and deeper into this intriguing place, pacing through leaves that have fallen to the ground and melted into it, the abrasive touch of blackened moss, trees that filter the blood-red light as they reach for the moon. There is no need for words. You walk and walk, with a mutual sense of calm resignation, with a taste of the final victory on pale lips. Darkness falls around the two of you, more and more profound, swallowing you with each step.
You are prepared to be the sole witnesses of your loosening from the world left behind. Pitch black - the most beautiful feeling you have ever had. The most beautiful and the last one, and you are connected more than ever before. Like an orgasmic moment, the superlative of all feelings approaches in streams, the ending ceremony for the death of generic human life. Darkness embarces you gently, and then the grip of it's arms tightens. Captive in it's embrace, you and the ghost of who you used to be are joint again, suffocated by agony and an unexplainable relief. Just like a starving giant, blackness of the unknown smothers you.
Welcome to the portal.
It's merciless torns pierce you like skewers, flesh blends with flesh, blood blends with blood. This is more than you could ever hope for, sharing the supreme experience that can be only lived once. And died once. After the last synchronized breath, you fall onto wet soil, united in beautiful carnage on this cold ground, and irony smell of seething blood sets in over the putrid stench of nature long gone. You have escaped, you are free...you found it. The black entity of dead-end has fulfilled it's mission once again.
You and ghostchild from your grip have married Death, the eternal communion.
