Saturday, 13 October 2018


I stand precariously at the edge of reason hoping with every sip of my whiskey to be pushed beyond it. I stammer, I totter, I nearly almost fall but - I don’t.

Fuck.

This side of the divide I have discipline, responsibilities, sense, maturity and a million other traits that every gifted, intelligent human possesses.
The other side, the foggy, dark, tantalizing side I have – me. I have the nonchalant, devil may care genius. I have the poet, the writer, the dreamer, the arrogant proud warrior with a sword in one hand, pen in other, bleeding from a thousand cuts yet smirking at heavens refusing to genuflect let alone die. I have the lover dipping his quill in his blood and pouring his heart out on his parchment. I have the knight defying his Lord and I have  the monk defying his God.

This side I am sensible. I am a professional. I am mature. I know what to say and to whom and I know when to keep shut. I know how to play politics and I know when I am being played. I know when I am the pawn, when the king and when the king maker. I know what is expected of me and I know how to fulfil my responsibilities. I know when to pull which string and I know when to give in. I know my work, I know my business and I know which way the money will move. I am reasonable. I debate and I do not argue. I disagree yet commit. I observe the members sitting around the round table and I make a mental note of their names, their strengths and weaknesses. I devise a strategy to pit them against each other. I make a plan. I know who hates whom and I know who will be my common friend against a common enemy and who will be my enemy against a jittered friend. I wait for the right opening in the discussion and I interject with an argument laden such with platitude and empty verbiage yet with enough intelligentsia and business acronyms so as to confuse everyone else and prevent a decision that isn’t to my liking.

The other side of the fog I stand with my sword dripping crimson droplets on a crimson ground held oblique in my hand. My hair bellows in the wind while perspiration and blood bring a sweet irritation to my eyes. Where my hair bellows in the raging wind and my tongue tastes the familiar metallic acrid stench in the air. Where I slowly raise my head to the heavens, smile and blink once to clear my vision. Where I extend one foot gracefully in front while I bend the other knee slightly to shift my center of gravity and with my taut sinews I bring my sword parallel to the blood soaked mud keeping the hilt perpendicular to my arched body. Where I ululate the ultimate cry of war while I enjoy the violent headwinds whipped by the charging hordes of enemy beasts. Where I enjoy the anticipation of inevitable bloodbath. And when it arrives then with every formidable step of mine the earth reverberates and with every arching slice of my greatsword I cut open hoards of charging infantry of humans and beast alike and smear myself with blood, guts and intestines. Where I swing and buckle and parry and thrust again and again as I laugh the hysterical, maniacal laughter of a man possessed of heartache of love of hate of indifference of saint and devil alike and of a million different emotions that consumes him burns him and turns his raging blood to a mountain of lava desperate to explode from the infinite pours on his body. Where once I win let both my knees touch the ground as I arch my back and raise my chest upwards while I raise my head to heavens and let my victory cry reverberate across the heavens. Where I finally raise my blood stained sword and utter my war cry one more time challenging the Gods to come and face me if they so dare.

One more sip, one more swig. I totter more. I nearly loose my balance. My head accidentally dips across the fog and my nostrils pick up the stench. My heart beat flutters and my muscles tighten.

I shake my head, I bend my knees and regain my balance. I pull my face back. I shake my head and look at my feet.

I take another swig of my whiskey. I close my eyes. I sip more. My knees falter. A tempting tantalizing whiff crosses the veil and reaches my olfactory senses. With a half drunk mind I see her angelic smile, I see her hand materializing out of thin air across the veil. I see her exquisitely manicured finger tempting me, suggestively prompting me to take a step, oh just one step forward. I hear her voice echoing in my conscience, reverberating across my skin and echoing in my head, pleading me to cross over.

I swig more.

My head hurts. My corporeal essence is tearing. I am transcending beyond my 
metaphysical existence. I am going to do it. I am going to take a step forward and like a phoenix rising from his ashes I will once again be me. My knees bend. I look at heavens. There is no bellowing wind, my hair isn’t whipping, there is no acrid, metallic stench in the air. I fumble. I fall.

I close my eyes. The glass shatters. The whiskey spills.

A familiar, fleeting voice whispers in the recesses of my fading being – It isn’t over. I am not leaving you yet. You will rise again. You will cross that veil again. And when you do you shall transcend through this fake realist and then in the truest dimension you will once again know the strength of your fingers and when you do the Gods will fear you. Come the day of judgement you will not be judged. You will be avenged. When the eternity arrives, you will make the Creator bleed.


 

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