what makes us follow the bleak corridor
though we know there is little hope that a door would open
in the leaden darkness, to let us escape?
what if the corridor is you and you can see yourself, naked,
in all the mirrors hanging on the walls?
what would it take for you to break free?
perhaps too much, the price too high -
tidal waves of fear and guilt,
loneliness, wounds still alive -
they can erase your memories yet the traces of pain remain -
voiceless, blind, branded in your skin.
so don’t look back, keep going,
cast a spell of truth and courage
and bring yourself to life again.
who knows what awaits you at the end of your journey:
a miracle. love. love.
it’s seven o’clock in the morning and the night’s indigo veil hasn’t lifted yet;
tattered nightmares still hang on your eyelashes like burning cobwebs;
muted screams still bleed on your lips;
you had that dream again: your beautiful house back there in that city you had always hated but could not escape;
its marble staircase, so smooth and cool to the feet, the great windows letting the light flood every corner,
the laughter of your children playing, the illusion that it would last forever
that you would grow old loved and cherished.
one day everybody left; they turned their backs without a goodbye; silence made its kingdom there, clothed in waiting;
white frozen days, months; time was staring at the blank walls -
your house became an empty shell; your garden withered;
one day someone else moved in: another family - noise, lies and secrets and all -
two children who had already noticed the torn hem of mother’s sequinned evening gown, the trace of smeared makeup on her cheek,
the scream hidden in the festive music;
the family was like any other: loss, betrayal, dark turns of fate coiled around their steps -
yet they pretended they had a normal life in their new home.
by then you were far away; you still visit the old house in a dream -
it always leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, like after a nervous breakdown when you’ve smashed precious objects
as if they were gilded prison walls or felt like a stone slate on your chest;
houses are not to be trusted: they belong to the ghosts, never to us.
it’s never about what happened but what it seems to have happened;
it’s always about what they say, not the truth;
the truth is wrapped in the silk of the hours - there’s also a stain or a wrinkle
hidden in a fold of that smoothness: sometimes, without warning,
horror bursts out of it like a jack-in-the-box,
the gentle breathing of the rain becomes a scream -
a scream so piercing as if the whole world screams,
foliages tremble, mirrors break, birds fall from the sky; it is
the shrill wailing of a demon or a dying animal, it is
a sharp blade slashing the clean face of the day;
I listen, petrified, as it claws at my sanity; I stay still and close my eyes;
I try to summon the things I loved and cherished
in the valley of ashes and dancing shadows:
pain yet unnamed.
please, no mercy for me: that horror is of my own making.