Walk The In-between where

it rains, lukewarm,

from overcast heavens –

omnipresent silver gaze desaturating,

nullifying,

mattifying,

smooth like velvet.

How those endless skies weep endlessly for you,

lost traveller,

fine mist descending upon you

sense of absolution, fog of forgetfulness

and you can’t feel the rain puddling in the ditches of your collarbones

for how faintly it caresses your body

Finally – let it wash away those jagged clusters

of salt crystals from your lashes

 

Follow your feet

you know where they lead you:

away from glaring light and midnight sky, to somewhere softer:

The In-between.

 

Amble towards it and believe your own fiction:

You yourself chose this – willingly.

You weren’t drawn by the same ripcurrent,

having towed you here countless times,

each journey into the fog

more lingering than last.

You will be here just a minute-

not an instant more.

 

But truthfully, you are following your own footsteps,

tracing lines already worn thin.

You’ve dwelt here before

You fear you’ll not escape this time:

The In-between,

Purgatory is not novelty

to you, traveller.

 

You follow:

your conscience,

your habits,

this well-traveled path

to tender oblivion

Your return 

– inevitable –

to The In-between.

 

And on your pilgrimage

you conveniently forget,

perhaps on purpose,

how the dim lights seep –

like seawater does

into fibrous hulls of sunken ships –

inevitably, steadily, invisibly –

into your own eyes, how they too grow dim

cataracts of algae

you feel ancient as the seafloor, silty

cold, untouched, untouchable, stagnant;

half-hope to stagnate here awhile

 

See, you frequent this hell because

when you finally break free,

you remember only the comfort

of nothingness,

dismissing how desperately you crave the absolutes and colours and emotions

black white blue and red

The state of existence – how you miss it

when all is suddenly grey

 

Yet here you are, again

meandering, lost, again

you are exhausted, again

rest your weary eyes, dear

But – by God, child – do not fall asleep here

 

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About: Sometimes, difficult realities felt deeply can become overwhelming, the most comforting solution being sinking into a fog of numbness. Existing, but not really. A greyed-out version of life, not sad but certainly not happy either. And this state of being can become addicting, a sort of self-comfort, but it is not reality; it is depriving oneself of real joy. Accepting the disastrous consequences of existing this way can be difficult, but escape is even more taxing – once liberated from this nothingness, colours and lights seem harsh. After too little, it is too much all at once: joy, sadness, sunbeams, love, hate, inspiration…  Here is where the cycle of feeling and numbness begins: feel too much and crave peace, feel too little and crave something real. To cope with the relatively magnified realities, each dangerous journey to the “In-between” lasts a little longer than the one before. Perspective becomes skewed when dancing between these extremes, a balanced middle-ground becoming nearly impossible to inhabit. And this is why the nothingness becomes so enticing; it is a reprieve from its only exhausting alternative. This is why I continue returning to it knowing well I may not be able to leave.

 

Image Citations:

“Elly Smallwood.” 36 Artworks, Bio & Shows on Artsy, www.artsy.net/artist/elly-smallwood.