Chapter 27 : his eyes unveiled

A story in a story in a story in a book.

And yet I can identify with so much of it. The feeling of loss. Feeling trapped in the city of my circumstance, seeking out hope in any familar joy. Seeking out stories that could just as well be a memory displaced. Memories that could just as well be stories made flesh. The four doors - sleep, forgetting, madness, and death. Stumbling in a waking stupor for so long I forget who I am. Driving myself to an empty soulless madness. Driving my mind to a stupor and my body to a numbness that resembles the sighted seeking the solitude of the night.

I can sense vague memories of being loved and admired. Being loved so fully that I forgot myself.

Then waking up one day to find my world burned and betrayed. Trying as I may to resurrect my world, fruitlessly, furiously. To no avail. Carrying for so long the guilt of the destruction. Hiding from my own memories. Cowering in a comfortable numbness. Bitterness.

It is very dangerous, finding your own joy. It means making your heart soft again. But there is strength in weakness. There is beauty that overcomes the pain. There is courage and hope found in grace.

And hope means the diffence between a life of pain and one of joy. Hope must never be surrendered, lest your world crumble and decay of its own failings. So much is lost by surrendering such an intangible thing.

Kisses are replaced with tears. Tears with hope. Hope with joy.

And joy with song.
-len