Meditation on an embrace

Behold a man. He walks a tight rope, above him a light of euphoria, below him a dark abyss, to his right deceptions of dogmatic morals, to his left jesters juggling for power. Behind him linger songs of Valkyries, in front of him a path of many possibilities of overcoming his humanness. He wears dark green glasses to protect his faltering eyes, behind which a dark storm brews.

The tempest rocks the rope, his balance is compromised, his thoughts blown about like notes on tattered paper. He squints to focus, nearby a creature stands, perhaps if he reaches out he can prevent his fall. The creature stirs, made nervous by his approach. The man extends his hands to reassure the creature he is no threat. The creature is tied to a cart – he sees the cart filled with books – kneeling on the books Salome holds a whip. His Salome, adorned by a thousand veils of which none are of intimacy - his beloved salvation, his desired protégé, unrequited love. His only carnal warmth found in the arms of prostitutes. That unholy trinity, that would turn the mundane normal into one worthy of living never matured - its only remnant an infamous photograph turned into a weapon undermining his reputation. He had posed as one of two beasts of burden, an allegory of the trio embarking on a quest, then came the betrayal and wandering solitude. His trinity instead became the one he desperately tried to flee, what he called the chain–sickness of his pious mother and stubborn, resolute sister.  They pulled at him from both sides grasping at his clothes pushing him every direction, the nails tearing at his flesh, deforming his features.

Deep darkness presses all around, voices filter through in a foreign language, they want answers, he cannot find his thoughts in the emptiness - words are replaced by groans. Then a familiar voice, light begins to penetrate, shadows become defined, two police officers are by his side, one holds his walking stick, the other his hat. He turns to the familiar voice, finally a recognizable face. He rushes to embrace him. Tight in the other’s arms, he releases his anxiety.

Back in his room, he must make sense of things, he searches his notes but the scribbles, squirming like worms, make no sense. Who is he? What man has he become? Each time he turns, the abyss is there staring back, what monsters lurk in the shadows? What creature will he be by engaging them? His equine state finally surrenders to the care of others.

In years to follow, many have pondered on the horse’s pedigree, some insisting that it was no horse at all, rather a donkey, others a mule. Some scoffed at the whole event and declared that it was all fictitious nonsense. The man, after all, had stated that there are no facts, only interpretations. The matter is inconclusive, there are too many ‘perhaps’. The only thing agreed upon is that the abyss was and is there, to be swallowed in.