Things in the dark are my friends,
with warm glowing eyes, slipping and sliding around my ankles
like wet fur against skin,
sighing sing for us ghost girl, sing.Watching Beckett plays last night, two phrases popped out at me. The "flagging pursuit of happiness," and "what remains of all that misery?" What indeed? I don't know if I'm still pursuing happiness. I suppose I am, or I wouldn't still be here, but do I believe in it?
There are moments of happiness to be found in the rubble of emotions lying in the dark, but depression casts a low fog over your vision so you cannot see the sparkles that tell you where there might be gems.
Meanwhile all the darkness we hide in our souls seems to blight the land, depress us into apathy and mindlessness, or even worse, violence and hate. And is apathy any better, sitting by and allowing it all to happen, when you can move?
When you can move. And if.
