I speak of the void, thus the void is real. Nomen est omen. The fact I did indeed create it doesn’t make it less real. And certainly doesn’t diminish neither its importance to me, nor its consequences.
Just like any void, it yells for a filler. So I feed it things, and experiences, joys and sorrows, and even living beings – at least my connection with them. I try to fill it with feasts or fasting, agitation or lazy idleness, love and scorn, lechery and continence. It swallows everything like a black hole, where no matter the light – it is not enough. I try to fill it, I try to fulfill it, and nothing is ever enough.
And it makes perfect sense… How could illusions – for illusions they are – to become the base of one’s resurrection? Why would I hope the trivial and the material would be nothing else but a frail house of cards? True, it’s not that hard to look for in the outside when the inside seems so bleak, and tangled, and frightening; then again: easy come, easy go. So gone is the moment satisfaction of having my bearings gathered when the void returns with new, violent drive.
The only thing that can fill the void – flood and fulfill – is my own being. It’s me I should be searching for, the real me, to bring within and replenish every bit of empty space. Well, here’s the catch: I don’t seem to find that true self. Whatever bit of myself I bring up to the surface is not enough. Be it swallowed or rejected, is not enough; make that double, or triple, or quadruple – still not enough. Me, myself and I aren’t enough.
I might be looking in the wrong lieu, but I know no other. Though I recognize every infinitesimal part of my body, mind and soul and glue them together in full artillery, this can’t satisfy the hunger of the enemy. It’s like I’m a full galaxy, spiral-armed and swarming through space, but the center is of the purest black, where no beacon that enters gets out of alive. No light is enough, my inner galaxy with its billion suns is not enough.
Still, there has to be some point in my pursuit. I just didn’t discover that perfect shining to be stronger than the void and seal it in perfection. The void would suck, and chew, and swallow, until it grew tired and replete to the edge of throwing all up; and all this time, that holy light wouldn’t have paled a glimpse. The shining would be more than enough.
But the shining is not in me yet. I can’t find it, I can’t make it. I yearn for it, I call it upon me, but it must be that I don’t utter the summoning right. This is my small, personal tragedy – yet so real, the greatest of them all. I am not enough. I won’t give in to not being enough.
(04 feb 2019)