The Lie

The night looms ever more menacing and slumber presents itself ever more comforting.  That comfort I must completely object and violently protest with each draught of determination my frail constitution and heavy eyes can inspire.  To sleep would seem so sweet, so serene, and so terrifying.  Entering that state of idle wonder, the little death guarded by the one ancients called Hypnos, will only hasten the coming of the dawn and a splendid sunlit glorious morn.  Dawn, the harbinger of the day to come, the glow of new opportunities to remind us of shattered dreams, comes with abject terror and sullen mood.  Each day, you see, begins with a lie.

A lie so warm and so cruel it beguiles and fools anew the dreamer who yearns for the hope it betrays. Yet always a deceiver it never delivers, day after day, of endless days.  It is this promise it uses to taunt me, to mock, and mourn me, to sneer at that for which I yearn.  To take my desire and daily rouse naught but dread and an existence covered in green and red.  Hues of woe color my days as I go onward in the parade and pantomime we all endure.

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Would that I would stay in my chambers dark in defiance of that solar spark that illuminates the earth.  Here in my bed I have only dreams to torment me.  Self wrought visions of violence and atrocities profane are a far more soothing and calming a refrain than the dissonant choir of dismal mire beyond my chamber door.  For here I am alone, and upon a throne of lies I’ll stay instead of waking and facing the day, and her.

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Her who in the spring of my heart lifted me with her wings to heights unknown. Her who with a mere glance could set my heart to sing songs unknown and full of wonder.  Her who for all I would give and feel I did not give enough.  Her who I would give my soul and thought it well kept.  Her, my beloved, who was to fulfill all my dreams of companionship and love.  Her who now uses her wings and gaze to remind me of my eternal blunder.

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My mistake and folly was to believe, that one such as I could dare to try, to challenge the gods and defy the odds and live with passion before lying under the sod.   I, a low born black sheep of a family of miscreants full of malice and spite, who was deemed unworthy and abandoned by their birth giver in favor of the solace only the spirits of inebriation can bring.  Once the self-realization of one’s situation creeps into the mind, dulling the senses often seems the only option.  The promise that lied to this other woman, this birth giver of mine, was happiness.  

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Happiness is all we’re supposed to want.  No goal more lofty nor dream any higher.  To nothing more should we aspire.  If but a small parcel of happiness should we obtain, in joy forever should we remain.  Our eyes would sparkle with everlasting delight if we could find happiness just for one night.  So we are told.  So we are taught.  Yet like the magic of a firefly’s luminescent fire, it vanishes once caught.  

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This feminine creator of mine, who as a child I considered divine, surely had dreams we may never know, but we can see to life what she chose to show.  She choose to fall in love with a man several years elder who saw her innocence and radiant splendor.  He a hero to take her away from a life so ordinary she felt lost in the fray.  In the middle of many the voice of the copper penny haired young lady cascaded to the ground barely making a sound.  Her life so plain the dark haired stranger’s offer of romance dared her to chance an escape.

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He did not offer riches nor words overly fond.  All he proffered was a life beyond.  So as the summer waned she conceived, and with winter as the shadows fed, they were wed.  Though by law they were man and wife she was truly alone for the first time in her life.  The roar of family that always drowned her out was no longer found, nowhere about.  Further her isolation was confounded by their living condition.  While once as a girl she played in a town of friendly communities with good company, now the home was more a prison, for these streets were not safe to roam.

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A glimmer of delight came into sight as her first child was born and offered his nascent cry.  Here at last was a drop of the happiness so desperately sought.  Though a drop from a poisoned cup it would prove to be. At last some comfort ought to be wrought from caring for a life so young.  So young, and small, and her only one. Yet soon there would be another, another, and another.  The growth of the family occurred biannually.  With more mouths to feed there was more to need and with more to need her groom less seen.

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He, it would seem, did not share this dream. Long hours away was the norm of his days with the reason of sustenance providing a cover.  This was his lie, and to her he felt bitter.  He was a man, not a child sitter.  Ever logical he offered a solution. One he imagined amiable to both sides.  He’d divide his attentions with her and another and for this reason there would not have to be a divide.  She could not agree, and with tears in her eyes rejected him and his plan, denied.  He could not see why, and with fury he cried, that she made a prisoner of him with her lie.

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It was now that she saw, this overburdened caregiver of many, the truth so clearly, that the lie she loved so dearly had only been a way to belay the fear.  From a rusty chalice the bitter potion of truth she swallowed.  Happiness was never to be had. Love was only for the mad. Life was nothing but a sprint to the grave.  With truth overwhelming she embraced fully the bliss and delusion of the bottle, the pills, and false love.  If she was to be in hell at least it could sometimes feel like heaven above.  

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This all took its toll, on the ones so very small, that clamored for care they did not receive.  Her brood had grown to five, and was ever so disgustingly alive, it mortified her more and more.  These beings too will have dreams, they too will be told the lie of happiness, she thought to herself.  Even now they looked to her when the world offered them ills.  This truth being too much to bear, and with one last look, a good long stare, she walked out the door and went who knows where.

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These past events are how I know every morning starts with a lie.  I wake up and behold my beloved.  A woman so fair my heart sings and soars. Angels must walk the earth and she amongst them.  By her side new heights of love are explored. Her, eternally, I adore.  Surely this is the promised happiness, to heaven I implore.

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Yet I know beneath that magnificent exterior facade of happiness we portray, a truly heartwarming and marvelous display, the truth of life lies.  We wear our masks well. With each ticking of the clock I hear how her heart sighs.  It is only a matter of time before she sees the truth and has her fill of lies.  The truth of why my birth giver fell.  From love, to sadness, to anger, to indifference.  Happiness, the dream, is never what it seems, and what starts with greatness always ends in madness.

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The symbol of this lie I fear so much I prefer violent dreams to waking is an ominous dead electronic tone.  Each morning my angel awakes and prepares the morning beverage, a dark caffeinated concoction.  Yet this infernal machine of brewing rings it chimes of completion upon the commencement, not the finalization, of its creative cycle.  A sound so faint yet full of thunder.  It robs me of hope and takes my heart as plunder.  Leaving in its stead the thought I most dread.  That one day soon the truth will appear and this love of mine will disappear. From conception this mocking device tolls the bell of truth to remind me each morn, that it all, is a lie.