Look into the window of my soul, into the eyes adulterated by darkness and sorrow. I will show you the spectrums. I will show you the web woven with coagulated blood that surrounds my soul, which holds me captive in my imagination. Watch as I die this slow and painful death by the hand of the words spoken to me. And watch as I am resurrected, more whole than before, by the meanings birthed into existence. Death and rebirth, a phoenix rises from its ashes.
A spectrum: two points lying on either end, connected by pieces of something. There are physical, perceptual, and emotional spectrums.
I shall start with the physical of light and dark. Consider a line: one end labeled point A and the other end labeled point B. Point A is darkness; point B is light. And in between lays everything that completes the spectrum—molecules of both light and dark, fighting for reign.
The perceptual spectrum is simply good and evil perceptions. This is the most dangerous; for it is within the realms of this idea that one decides what is real and what is not.
Let me share a brief anecdote with you. Several months ago, I was riding the bus home from school when the bus came to a stop. A few people climbed on, one of which was a woman—probably 80 or so. The seat next to me was open, open for her to take, but she was hesitant. When she finally reconciled with herself that there were no other seats available, she sat down next to me. Moments went by and then she began talking. Small talk at first, then she asked me what I was going to do with my life. I explained that I was a writer and that I intend to continue drowning in the dark waters. She told me she was once a writing professor at a university and that I must be careful. I was confused. What did she mean? She explained that if I dwell in the darkness for too long, I won’t be able to come back. I told her I don’t have a choice. And she said, “I know.”
The perceptual spectrum is based upon perceptions. But what’s more, these feelings and ideas will become too real if one doesn’t have something to hold on to. They will over power one’s sense of reality and one will succumb to the depths of the underworld: the place where the soul dwells.
I am just a listener, listening to the voice of my soul. I have no choice but to travel within and have faith that my silver cord will remain attached to reality. Good and evil is what it deals with. Ideas. Perceptions. Clues. A labyrinth of chaos.
Come with me. I sit on the front stoop in the mornings and drink my coffee. Our house cat sits across, staring into my eyes. What will she do? I get a morbid image in my mind of her pouncing up and sinking her fangs into my neck, sucking me dry. And then the image goes away, and she remains just a sweet little cat sitting across from me.
Evil and good.
She is, simply, different holograms of my reality.
But why? Why must she be the anchor of my perceptions, what I compare every natural event to? Perhaps because she has the ability to shift into either point A or point B—she can be either good or bad. Or perhaps it’s because she examines me with the same attentiveness that I examine my soul with.
I know this: she remains my friend, even if she kills me. And what’s deeper, she remains the link to the emotional spectrum—our anchors remain the link.
Hot and cold.
Within this spectrum lies a duality of every emotion imaginable. Hate, sorrow, loneliness, love…
This is the arena directly linked to one’s moral. And it seems a constant battle.
Consider the man with everything in the world he could possibly want and need. He is happy with his happy little smile plastered upon his deranged face. The face he holds, underneath, just a demon looking back. He runs into the kitchen, grabs a knife, stabs it into his gut, and rips his insides out. No more than a second later, reality flashes before him. He lies on the couch, alive, and aware that it was only a day dream of death. But he can’t get it out of his mind. It haunts him. Disturbs him. Screams to him—during the waking and the sleeping. The next day, he lives it again and again and again. He realizes he doesn’t even exist, but that this violent horror scene is simply someone else’s thought: a thought, a scene, being used as an anchor for someone else’s emotions and clarity.
He is just a feeling in the spectrum of emotion.
He is lonely. He is hateful. He is loving. He is joyous. But he can’t be more than one feeling at a time, even if for a split second. He writes his poetry upon the walls of his deepest caves—he has nothing else to do but to exist for the wellbeing of someone else.
I shall leave you with this: all three spectrums are as real as the stars are to the moon. But they’re only as dangerous as a knife is to its sheath—the spectrum of danger remains in the hands of the owner.