Christmas Mourning

Angelux

.

.
’Tis the season to be… reminded of the ghosts of Christmas past.

This season has always been dark for me punctuated by garish coloured light, a Winter of discontent for the malcontent. The tree is a family one, the lights are tempers flaring, the baubles are grievances, the star, the angel, the crowning glory on top of it all is an ever elusive quest which fuels the desires that burn on either side of the hearth. The gifts are guilt trips, bribes and blackmail, the gathering is one of wrath, the eve is the vanguard that attacks at dawn of the day. The battle rolls on throughout, no victors to be found amongst the dismembered members of a family, bodies strewn across the ground.

And today is a day which marks the passing of a human life, one of which I was a part, one without whom my own human life would not have been.

.

.

“And alien tears will fill for him pity’s long broken urn. For his mourners will all be outcast men, and outcasts always mourn.” ― Oscar Wilde

.

.

He clung to life with tenacity, although I am not sure if his attachment was one of love or hate. Hate sometimes is a more powerful motivator for a human to hang on to something, even something like life which is an elusive substance, a primal spark.

Considering what occurred just before he let go and drifted away from the plane of matter, his love for his hate and his desire to have the final say may have been what kept him here so long. His body had given up on him many years before, but his mind never gave up although it often seemed to be lost in a labyrinth filled with mythical beasts, of which he was one, to fight or flee, and fight to flee.

He died shortly after he had obtained a divorce, a divorce for which he fought hard to obtain. At first he fought his own reluctance, then he fought against the tentacles of the other who refused to let him go. She had not been a part of his real life for decades, yet in fantasy she was always by his side. She saw herself as his guardian angel, he saw her as a vulture, an impatient one who could not wait for him to die to partake of his flesh.

Had he known then, as he inhaled his last breath, then exhaled himself with it, what I know now, perhaps he would not have left so soon, but it was time. His wish to be free…of life, of her, was granted. The former remained, the latter was revoked. His final say was not the final say in this matter, but she waited until he could speak no more, his voice silenced at last so hers could take over, so she could have all the last words she had always craved. And talk, and talk, and talk, but never listen for such an act struck a chord of terror within her. The sound of her own voice drowned out the world around her, its clamors and cries, its laughter, its joys, its ability to live without her.

 

He wanted to live without her… so he would only be allowed to live within her.

He belonged to her, no one else could have him, not even he could own himself.

’Til death do us part brought her closer to him than they had ever been. In death he was hers to love as she wanted, the way she needed it to be to fuel her fantasy of him, of him for her, of her.

And what of me…?

.

.

“When asked, “Why do you always wear black?”, he said, “I am mourning for my life.” ― Anton Chekhov

.

.

Me has always been an extension of the we. There but not there. A pawn in a long and heated game of human chess between a white queen and a black king. Tossed around, manoeuvre after manoeuvre, blamed for their losses, never rewarded for wins, for in this game no one ever won for it was never-ending even after the king left the game.

And so it goes and keeps going. The energiser bunny from hell who thinks it is from heaven.

She knew the moment he had died. A vulture always knows for they never stop watching with their greedy and beady eyes. But she waited to tell me, the length of a month, for that was the time it took her to find out that she could not get her beak into the flesh she wanted.

He is dead, she said, there may be something in it for you… btw, happy birthday.

Indeed.

And there was something in it for me, the chance to make peace with a ghost, whose life passing from my life had been mourned many times before it actually ceased to be, there were no tears left for they had been used up long ago, but first there was a gauntlet to run… I am still running, the ghost is running with me, its footsteps shadowing mine, not behind but ahead.

She will not let him rest in peace, she will not let him die, she will not honour his last wishes, nor will her tears run dry.

.

.

“She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.” ― Jonathan Safran Foer

.

.

For many years I fought for her, the side was chosen for me, by her, by him, but they made me believe it was by me. But life has a way of revealing the truth we may not see, and ghosts have a way of returning what you have lost to thee. And so now I fight for him, for the ghost who runs with me, and as we run together, I see that he is a part of me, I am still a part of the we.

I never knew him as well in life as I do now that he is dead. Perhaps because he lived outside, and now his ghost haunts my head. He wants his last word to be mine.

I may have to disappoint again, but that loss is just for me.

They say when someone dies, you may inherit a legacy. It is not that which is material that counts, there is very little of that, although the way she behaves about it, you’d think it was Fort Knox, but that which is immaterial is plentiful. A cornucopia of losses looking for just one win.

I wish that I could share him with you, the gifts which mingled with the curse, the art, the inspiration, the beautiful ghosts of his muses… but she sees herself as his only muse, a jealous, envious, devouring muse, who watches with hungry eyes, and clings with claws of sharpest adamantine to all he had as being hers.

And if she were to find this, what is me would become hers…

And if she were to find you, what is you would become hers…

.

.

“There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can’t cross it. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.” ― Isaac Marion

.

.

But what was him was meant to be shared, and he shared himself, piece by piece, to his benefit, to his own detriment, for each time he did it he lost a piece of himself, a gain, a win, for someone else… for she was not the only vulture in the world around him.

 

Some things are there, but can’t be seen.

The consequences of giving… the ghosts of Christmas past who live within the present.

.

.

SnowFlaked

.

.

*Gone, But Not Forgotten (and therefore not really gone at all).