There is a hole in the floor of my soul, and it has been there since the day I was born. It leads to darkness, to emptiness, to the unknown. It is an opening to the other side.
I can cover it up, but I cannot close it.
Even though it is covered, a cold wind occasionally blows up through the cracks between the boards. Usually it is just a passing draft, but sometimes it blows steadily enough that it fills my entire soul with its chill. When that happens no arms can warm me, no words can comfort me, and nobody can reach me.
It is times like that when I am most alone.
Often I forget about it. Sometimes the wind doesn’t blow for a long time, and I forget that it is even there. And yet -- even then -- I am still reminded of it from time to time, by the hollow thump that my footsteps make when I wander in that corner of my soul.
And every once in a while, on nights like tonight, I lift up the boards up and I peer inside.
I know that one day I will pass through. But tonight, I simply stare.
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"I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung." ~ Rabindranath Tagore
- bard
- A mixture of poet and musician, warrior and philosopher, the bard, having grown weary of trying to find his place in the modern world, retired to the Lonely Bard Inn to contemplate his future. He is often seen drinking or writing alone (a personification of the inn itself), but from time to time he joins in the festivities that are always to be found in the pub. On occasion he even shares a poem or song with the sympathetic patrons, who are usually eager for new forms of amusement.
I too am intimately acquainted with the rim of that hole and have paced and walked the edges thereof. I have one, too.
ReplyDeleteAh yes, that hole.
ReplyDeleteI have one. It always seems to lurk. Ever notice how it lurks?
*clapping*
ReplyDeleteHooray for running with this theme. Again, a wonderful piece! A dark and sad reminder of our mortality, and more.