Misancholia

. Internal
…And no sooner had I detached from the pressing gloom of my existential crisis, did
two words swarm into my mind. Like plagues they took hold, systematically shutting
down my abilities to focus on anything else.
The two designations that initially threatened to re-submerge me, came to me
exclusively on the merits of their sonic aesthetic. Sans-context, the phonetic
relationship the two words had to one another gained new significance to me and
struck me as being overtly arousing in nature on this unusually wintery afternoon in
August.
I am anything but estranged from the words; on the contrary, in pathos imbued
literature and within the oppressive ambience of life, I am intimately acquainted with
the two lyrically harmonious adjectives. In fact, it would not be hyperbolic to suggest I
wrestled with the notions the words in question extolled and exhibited, on a daily
basis. Yet – today – upon their visit came a haunting necessity to need to construct
these words into the arbitrary realm of tangibility.
How, and via what means I would ingrain the two notions into atomic bodies I was not
certain. Would they be twin items, arbitrarily differing or opposites? In trying to make
sense of it all, I over think and lose my way. With my mind far too scattered to
dedicate analysis to a single ends, I burden myself with a headache whilst submerging
myself in nonsensical ideas.
Visualising myself holding a cranium in my left hand and a mandible in my right, I stop
short of bursting into that famous Shakespearean monologue and swap that thought
for a pair of emerald bejeweled rings.
Still in the mindset of antiquity, I imagine goblets that I would only fill with the most
bitter of beverages before deciding paintings would be more decadent.
My mind shifts gear, I move on wondering if my previous possibilities were too
derivative. I divert to relatively esoteric paraphernalia; ritualistic candles, voodoo dolls
or better yet, more suitable to their ravenous natures, a pair of vultures of the
taxidermic variety.
A significant time passes before I’m released from the catatonic state which had taken
me prisoner. Devoid of the willpower to return to an issue to resolve it, I have become
what I describe as inversely neurotic as I sicken myself with stoic poise. In my most
severe attacks, my mind races in an attempt to solve the puzzle time and
circumstance places before me, and in doing so ceases to send signals to animate my
celestial shell.
I continue to wade through a host of ideas, and weigh numerous options aided by a
glass of red wine for the sake of my health. Pharmaceutically relaxed whilst gripped
under the spell of this craven torment, I dreamily muse upon a number of pertinences:
Which of the two words has the most significant hold on me?
Which am I most pressed by, a victim to?
Which of the two speaks to me loudest and defines me most prominently?
And are the words really were divisible enough from one another to warrant
independent incarnations?
I allow the latter thought to dissolve, as I recall a philosophical symposium where Alan
Watts discussed in part, the error of using the word ‘is’. Ruminating on the crux of that
portion of the conversation I remember being struck by the simplicity of the profound
advocacy.
Nothing is the same as anything else, as everything ‘is’ its own unique entity.
The importance of the notion inexplicably ground in to me by the veracious tone of the
statement that, ‘every time you use the word ‘is’ you do injustice to the thing you’re
making comparison to’.
I take a breath. Reabsorb the nuance of the lesson whilst allowing the final sip of
merlot to sit on my tongue. Satisfied, I release the last of the full bodied splendour into
my throat. It trickles warm and soothing into my emptiness disappearing forever much
like the loving kiss of a woman. I look pleadingly to the heavens and breathe again.
I gaze around the bleak decadence of my surroundings (grey walls, medical
ornaments, and monochrome photographs) searching for a sign, answers in the air,
writings on the wall, inspiration in the ether.
An imbalance hung distilled in the air. Subconsciously sensitive to it, I found myself
choked by its presence the moment I woke. Duelling depressive and self destructive
inclinations, my mind recoils in incoherency. Heavy footed I make for my balcony but
find even my hill top view insufficient to provide solace. Forlorn I stand hand in pocket
and watch as a subtle green glow flirtatiously clings to the smog over the city; the
thought of presiding over choking constituents would usually ease the ache in my soul,
and bring a smile to my bitter lips, but today…
…today it just throws me into fraught thoughts as I disappear into my own
philosophies.
I’m tapped on the shoulder by my ‘Law Paradox’, the hypothesis that suggests
‘without law justice would prevail’. Imagine a world where the laws implicit rigidity
didn’t allow for miscarriages, and where people were kept in line by the possibility of
those they slighted taking up arms against them and obtaining what is now
colloquially termed ‘street justice’. Would you risk taking an inch from your neighbour,
if there were no leash to prevent him in turn taking a mile?
The improprieties of the human race disgusts me to no end discolouring my mood and
view on even minutiae, my arms tense up and my hands recede into fists. My
‘Religion counter offer’ comes to mind.
“Those who believe that the eradication of a belief in God would cure the ills of the
world”, I start mumbling under my breath, “are equally as naive as those who believe
solely in God”.
“For they – by proxy believe in people”!
I feel the agitation rise with the volume of my voice.
“Over 50% of the world’s population is religious, and a great many of them for better
or for worse, are fiercely so. In this they believe the figure of their adoration is
flawless.
Should these ‘personalities’ not have a flawless entity to believe in they would simply
turn that affection in on themselves or on to another leader, that of the human
persuasion.
If they cease to realise the error of their way, they will be slaves to madness. Whether
it be their own or their new found leader, and thus they are back in the mold of
pathological liabilities.
If they recognise the error of their way, and recognise themselves or their chosen
leader as flawed flesh, madness and disappointment would ensue and thus they
become a liability.
The truth of the matter is that everything and anything has the potential to be a
travesty. Everything we do or negate will eventually give rise to a natural disaster, it’s
as simple and unavoidable as that.
Thankfully, the majority of religious doctrines instill passivity, and provide four solid
walls for their practioners to enclose themselves within”. Ha, Thank God?
Wound up by the futility of wishing for an anarchistic utopia, the stupidity of the
majority, and the tyranny of the masses, I retreat to where I can focus in lieu of being
able to clear my mind and continue my contemplation of ‘the two words’ in a bath.
Upon submergence into the warm waters I close my eyes, and no sooner had I done so
two independent sculptures of women, in the vein of the thinker coalesced, prompting
me to manually placate the lascivious hunger they sewed in me.
I masturbated in the bubbles and effervescent scent of the licorice candles.
Their brilliant porcelain hue, and smooth marble bodies deceptively plush and silky to
the eye, yet femininely cold, hard and unforgiving on intimate inspection.
Their ever erect nipples sat on puffy areoles, and perky pixie-esc breasts fitting my
every aesthetic desire. Natural waistlines curve out into Amazonian hips, dripping with
the fervour of fertility and rife with my fetishistic aesthetic.
I come again just weaving my gaze around their heavenly curves in my minds eye, an
amalgamation of women I have known, loved, despised and lost, these twins will be
my making and my downfall.

It came as no surprise to me that my most significant idea was the one that presented
itself to me weightless in water in the din of a darkened room. Momentarily free from
inner turmoil, I ready myself for a self congratulatory jog to continue considering the
ontological designs of my idea, and indulge the introspection that had initiated this
journey without the distractions the abode holds.
I grab my shades, and my cap to create an illusion of insulation, and close the front
door behind me.
. External

Paradoxical axioms of self-adoration and self-loathing bend and modulate the features
of my muses and continually warped my expectation of my relationship with them.
All the while I absently retrace my usual route which takes me from the built up
affluence of my residential trappings through to rural pathways that circumvent the
area. I manage to attune myself to the change in the air as the dry scent of brick and
tarmac makes way to the comparatively moist redolence of forestry and fauna; this
aside I am externally muted.
This externality aside I proceeded on a level of sensory autopilot that didn’t facilitate
for me noticing much more than what I had usually perceived on said trek, and so I am
as shocked as I am unsurprised at finding myself prone on the ground with my nose
but an inch from the dirt trail. The scent from down here significantly different. The
smell of wet dog and coyote excretions cling to the ground where the high winds are
not present.
On rolling over into an upright sitting position, I first notice the blemishes to my
garments, and knees before my gaze wanders and I clap eyes on the obstruction that
felled me.
A tan briefcase which may I say had the tonal qualities suited for allowing it to blend
into its surroundings.
The briefcase is completely unremarkable, tan with black chrome buckles, but on the
top left corner of the opening side an embroidered eyeball branding. Inexplicably, a
branding I have no familiarity with.
Once the pain suitably subsides I rise to my feet, and with renewed clarity of thought
collected the briefcase into my possession.
I instinctively bring the case to my nose to ascertain the authenticity of the leather, its
real, the potency of the aroma triggers a tick, I feel a nerve pull in my neck, erotic
thoughts of bondage attempt to distract before my priority turns to immediately
returning home.
Every sense alive and alert, I attempted to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and
at pains to remain calm as a number of extreme possibilities plague my mind.
I consider whether the briefcase contains the payoff for handover to a kidnapper;
would leaver or collector be more peeved?
The inconvenience of arriving to find nothing, the appropriation of contents, the
wasted time and in vein planning, all feasible grounds for seeking reprisal.
Maybe the case is a plant by the C.I.A, traceable and bugged?
At best I’m walking with an urgent skip in my step, yet I hyperventilate with the
breathy pants of a victim of cancerous lungs.
It’s not until I’m home, gin in hand, slicing an accompanying shard of cucumber whilst
contemplatively massaging two rocks around the beaker that I’m able to reach the
conclusion that maybe, it was simply just my lucky day.
The spontaneous pained cracking of the ice draws my attention from my anxiety. I
watch as the audible fades to inaudible, subtly and unheard a ridge permanently alters
the once flawless landscape, and it comforts me to know that something so
quintessential and solid can crack on contact with something as un-oppressive as a
still fluid.
I fade back into the illusory present.
Maybe the case contained drugs, or drug money, an organ awaiting sale on the black
market, and the owner was found in a compromising position where in order to
conceal or avoid apprehension, they swiftly discarded of the case and in doing so
completely lost sight of where they had thrown it.
“Inconsequential”, I exclaim aloud in a huff, annoyed by my seemingly persistent
endeavour to
insist upon a negative. I bite down on my tongue, it offers me an immediate focus, as I
attempt to re-balance my mind.
Chopin’s Mazurka No.6 in tow, I manage to quiet my mind to a comfortable buzz. A
hum I have grown to accept, and my next agenda is to reveal, in the confined privacy
of my office space, the contents of the case.
. Final
The combination, 528 491, that I found the brief case set upon failed to open the case,
alongside a number of further futile attempts at slight alterations. I cycled through the
usual preset combinations before attempting an arbitrary range of creative
possibilities. I considered ‘Googling’ the probability rate of happening upon the right
combination but decided against it, I wasn’t too concerned about having to break into
the case and so I tried one last combination.
150 192, a series personal to myself, and simply a final civil attempt before the
negotiation changed tone; and to my perplexed amazement, the case opened.
“Coincidence is the sceptics providence”, I exclaim, a maxim I have long used.
Inside the case I find a box, ‘Machiavellian’ etched into it, clearly made to fit, the
ashen box, matte and dull in colour fit the dimensions of the case exactly. Attached
with electrical tape I find a small key, I remove it and once again find the eye brand, in
the middle of which sat the key hole.
I run my finger over the grooves, the hairs on my arm stand to attention as the
exhilaration of the moment became awash with sensuality.
Serendipity struck a third time as my favourite, and most tristful of the Mazurkas,
lugubriously filled the room with an air of mystery, I proceed to unlocking the box,
placing and turning the key in the key hole at the top left of the box.
A clicking of a loosening latch followed and the box ever so slightly slid open revealing
a felt lining, magenta in colour. I slide the lid aside and gasp at the sight of ‘twins’.
Prior intrigue answered I wonder, has my entire ordeal been a venture of divine
conception?
Ornate yet contemporary, I marvel at both the presentation and the craftsmanship of
what I beheld.
9mm pistols with transparent handles and clips, filled with chrome bullets and adorned
by the phrase, ‘Eloquentia sagitta’ across both shafts. Trite, and ironic I chuckle at
the juxtaposition it poses. Custom made by someone with impeccable taste, every
feature lovingly sculpted to represent the owners taste, and all seemingly done for me.
“What beauties you are to behold”, I say to them, expressing my love, so they were
aware of the appreciation I’d garnered in them.
“What majesty in tools of destruction”, I continued as pangs of emotion strike moving
me to involuntary silence. My lip trembles before my truest friends spring forth to
comfort me.
Tears, my oldest allies free me, accompanying the feeling of overwhelming
appreciation that overawed me, soothing the sudden awareness of loneliness which
begat me in my moment of wanting to share my feelings of pleasure about my new
found possessions.
Tools that could be used to end pain or inflict pain, out of hatred or mercy, malice or
misery, and most pertinently out of the result of the two locutions that came to me
this morning, Misanthropy and Melancholy.
I grip them with an urgent necessity which sat upon, as I conclude that these are and
always have been ‘Melancholy and Misanthropy’; I gulp, swallowing hard on the excess
saliva that had built up in my mouth drowning my tongue.
Humbled yet overwhelmed by an excitation that staggered my breathing, I turn to the
mirror above my desk to view myself as the empowered embodiment I envisioned
myself being with these beauties at each arm.
I turn with the strict intention of looking myself in the eyes, to gaze into the abyss in
the hope that it would gaze back, but I find that my anticipated reciprocated gaze is
obstructed.

I find that pressed against my temple, is the ‘entity’ I am holding in my left hand,
whilst the other points directly at my reflection in the mirror.
I smirk; I see the expression on my face alter from staged power to fear. I notice this,
and that I’m no longer wearing my cap and this throws me into a fit of wild laughter.
“Of course”, I chuckle aloud, “The joke is on me”.
Melancholy feels cold yet comforting against my skin, she whispers in my ear that she
can free me instantaneously from my earthly woes and worries, that she can take me
to a theatre where I would be the main attraction, and exquisitely entertained.
Misanthropy harps in, pointing aggressively, prodding and shouting words of disgust as
it obstructed my face. Pointing out my hubris and cubidity, my narcissism and
maladaptivity, my folly and pointlessness, I drowned in a self realisation I was unable
to deny.
Misanthropy calls me up on my flaws and patheticness, but insists I’m not alone. There
are many less worthy than you, an infinite number, end them and then yourself it
hisses.
“Cease your introspection”, Melancholy coerces, “Listen no more to
the venom of my brother, and heed the nectar of my words”. Her
demure charm reacquainting me with my tears.

“Trust in me, you’ve felt me, you’ve seen me, now finally you must
hear me”.
She kisses my temple again.
This time deeper, and with more intent than before.
She whispers words that replace the cold in my heart, and pain in my soul with an
indescribable lightness which opens my eyes.
I Pause.
I pull the trigger.
I hear nothing.
…and in the moment before the light fades to black, I wonder, ‘which entity was really
which’.

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