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Pass to the Passage

I switched off the lights And walked to my bed. Seeing in the dark was always easier. Feeling my way is a reality now. After all the times I’ve tripped in lucid lights On the things I couldn’t see; The dark is a welcome awakening, Of senses that finally unite In the now. The mirror on my cupboard is the only one to pass. On it, is the famous adage: This too shall pass But it doesn’t. It stays. Reflecting off of the luminesce that only accompanies shadows. Today feels different, Like all that’s come to pass

Will pass by, Into that which never comes to pass. The pass<age seems aged; Yet shadows know not time; But only space and faint luminescence. Ah!

The cupboard seems open! I must close it before I sleep! Lest monsters that bear human clothes, Pass through into shadows; That then devour what has passed within me. The metal screeches, The sound of a passing banshee; And clicks shut With the resounding finality only locks locked by self impart. And suddenly, I’m facing myself. Only not me, The solid one that wore faded grey pajamas for a time-tested sleep. But a shape that now wears what seems to be a white-shrouded silhouette. Behind me and before me, All is the same. For inversions exists only in that which breathes; And nothing else lives, Yet perfunctorily exists. The chair behind me is laden with clothes, The bed stretches beneath a duvet in apparent disarray; Flimsy curtains, Almost tall giants, Let through moonlight between tall walls; And far, far away, The bedside table sits silently, Burdened with an almost empty elongated transparence and a stout moist glass; That once held that which combusts me now. In this realm, All that’s never lived.

Moves. The empty bed clicks, The cupboard stretches, The static chair sounds out a sway. And yet, Now there’s two of them. One that’s within, And one that’s without. As within so without. I’ve stood here for too long now, I no longer know where to move;

Should I step forward into a world of silent inversion, Where I’m not faded grey, but almost white, Where time has once passed And will never pass by? Or should I step back, Into the world of strewn fabric and noisy undead; Where what consumes me, Is what I consume. And where the passage never closes in too close? I’m tired today, And I slump against the cold mirror, In hopes that I pass through. . The mirror’s warm now, As we fall asleep in our embrace.

Have you ever really taken a good look at a mirror in the dark? It is quite akin to seeing a magic trick for the first time.

For the first few seconds, you feel stupid, almost defiant, as if this was all a rather idiotic ruse. Yet after a while, you can't but feel slightly nonplussed, because what you see isn't what you feel and this disconnect is highly disconcerting. At this point, most of us would give up, curl back into beds or switch on the lights or just stop believing that the magic we felt is true and lull ourselves back into comfort through the threads of reality we perceive to know so well.

However, if you can persist, stay. What you feel, discern, discover and think of, will fill you with the awe of a curious child gazing at the strike of a match - and lo and behold - it will ignite within you that which you thought was lost. Try it. Life is so much more beautiful when felt.

What's dark is oft misunderstood, because it can only be felt not seen; and I do believe we hold too much relevance to what we see and hear, than what we feel. We hold many worlds inside us, and often don't realize that what we are scared of, the so-called "monsters" are not others around us, but unaddressed fears and trauma within. The prose hopes to detail what you can see in the mirror through metaphors that can only be discerned through a similar experience. Happy exploring this weekend :)

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