Misery, Herself

Fi.
An original written by Alexandra.

The Suicide (1836)
Alexandre-Gabriel Decamps

I sincerely thought it would feel different.
Yet the misery I felt below stubbornly clings to me.
She has sewn herself into my veins.
We are now inseparable and intrinsic.
I can still sometimes feel the prick of the needle
as she every so often reminds me of her presence.
In some strange ways, I do not want to part with her,
for she is all I have known and my dearest companion.
But as I step across the threshold between lives,
I would not mind burying the dead weight that she has become. 

She stomps her foot, like an irate toddler, at the mere
suggestion of divorcing her.
“I am nothing without you and you are nothing
without me,” she would always whisper.
The hallways in my mind captured the residue of those
words and haunted me in the dimmest
of nights. Even when she was asleep.
In fact, it was her idea to take me across.
Her hand reaches out for mine.
It is so grey and bleak. So very frail and weak.
I wonder how many hands she has grasped to accompany
over the threshold. How many lifetimes has she witnessed,
penetrated and infected? I am the latest casualty.

My vision’s focus retracts from her hand and settles
onto my surroundings. The colours are rather mundane
for the Lord’s Kingdom. I have actually seen better.
The smell is not as spectacular as I had imagined.
I cannot hear the muffled voices of my loved ones.
The angels’ glow does not consume me. It does not
hypnotise or entrance as others have detailed.
Perhaps my time on earth has bled me too dry.
As Misery stitched herself into my veins, she locked up
the very sensation that was to make me feel alive.
Everything is dulled, everything is muted,
so much so that I cannot even see, hear or feel the
otherworldliness of Heaven.

I cannot hear music. I cannot find my family. I cannot
find Lottie. The sky here is not my favourite colour. I like
uninterrupted and unmistakable blue. I have never liked this
fiery peach. I find it looks too alarming for this time of
day. The angels do not even know my name.

The last thing I want is to resent The Creator,
for He created blissful moments, experiences, individuals,
oceans, seas, lands, forests, consciousness and bliss itself.
But equally, He created tragedy, catastrophe, disaster
and inexplicably painful heartache, all of which had plagued
this life of mine and made me yearn for the next. 

“Do you like it here?” Misery murmurs to me.
I did not answer her. I now realise that as long as
she is with me, she will isolate me in every lifetime.

“I have to let you go.”
Her threads tighten throughout my body. It is both
agonising and safeguarding. It had always made me feel
secure – but at what cost?
“It is time,” I assure her. “Go.”
After one more attempt of resistance, she slowly
loosens and unwinds herself. It takes a while.
She has tangled herself amongst her own convoluted
constellations and webs inside me throughout the years.
As silently as she appeared, she is gone.
I thought that without all that dead weight I would feel
lighter. Perhaps I grew too accustomed to her.

With each step, the colours become more vibrant.
I can hear my mother’s voice now and can smell
her perfume. Lottie taps me on the shoulder. I hear
a soothing, gentle and incredibly comforting voice
call my name. And, at last! The sky is blue.
Tell me why I do not feel better. None of
this thrills me. Will I ever be more than an observer?
I see it all but feel nothing.

I can see Him now. I am scared He will not
recognise me. I feel I have changed so much between
the beginning and now.
He turns around as if I am right on time.
He greets me and says my name.
“You remember me?”
Of course, He does.
“You have not changed one bit.”
How odd.

We talk for what feels like an eternity.
There is so much I have to ask.
After a while, there is a brief silence as I muster up
the courage to ask Him the question to which
I dread the answer.

“Why did you make me the home of misery?”
Was it a punishment? Was it something I deserved?
I must have done something inconceivable in a past
life or two ago.
He leans back and His face indicates a pondering over
how to answer me.
“Because, young one…” He pauses.
“…because you two were always so alike.”
My stomach drops and my veins tighten again.
In this moment, I realise that I have become
Misery herself.

Sapho à Leucate (1801)
Antoine Jean Gros