''What is this hole
That feeds on all
Good, strong and potent
And turns it into
Dead, weak and hollow?''
The poet dropped his pen and walked to the window in his study room. Weakness had overtaken him and swallowed him and his desperate attempt to write it out, and thus eliminating it, was vain. The black hole in his soul was all he knew at this moment; place with no hope, no future, no love.
What is the point? Life has turned out harder than he ever imagined, people far too hard to comprehend and relate to, love far too fleeting to trust and fight for. All the voices in his mind begged, fought and strived to tell him to give in, give up, let go and jump off the edge into a restful, eternal sleep where no pain resides. But it would be selfish…
What about the people he loved? No, too vague… what about her? Would it not hurt her? Would she not suffer? Here the voices painted a picture with her as the main character and what a happy life she would lead without him in the frame; a life fulfilled, with a good husband, happy children and a sparkling future. He was filled with joy when he saw her smile, the sense of relief, fulfilment and happiness were there when her lips moved in a upward pose, when her eyes spoke more than all the words he ever wrote could. But the feeling of loneliness was undeniable, for he wanted to be there with her…to be her husband, to be her lover and life-long companion, to share the sense of happiness and fulfilment, the sparkling future, the beautiful children…
The voices won. He started to believe them. Maybe she doesn’t need him…
He sat down on his chair, his body weak and powerless, his head dark and gloomy, his soul on life support which was rapidly fleeting. He looked to the ceiling and let the voices destroy him, like an army charging a defenceless city, the soldiers killing everyone in their path and burning all the buildings in their way. The darkness grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. It felt like his body was giving in, preparing to shut off and rest after such an exhausting fight.
Suddenly he heard steps in his tastefully decorated study, clear and determined steps walking around the liquor cabinet. He lowered his head the view the intruder and saw a sight most people would find terrifying but he grew accustomed to. A man was pouring himself a drink, a man mixed with only two colours; black and white. His black and white coat was split down the middle, going down his spine, the coat reaching to his knees. The left side was white, the right black, but his trousers were mirror-imaged; the right leg was white, the left one black. This mirroring was happening throughout the entirety of his attire and his skin. The shoes were mirror-imaged to his trousers, his hair split down the middle, the same way as his coat; the left side of the back of his head (he was facing away from the poet) was filled with semi-long black hair, the right side with black. The belt which was over the coat was mirror-imaged to the coat and thus became completely visible. His left hand was black with white fingernails and white veins protruding under his skin.
The man finally faced the poet, revealing his mesmerizing face which was a puzzle of white and black pieces. Left side of the face was white with black details; all the wrinkles which appeared by his facial mimicry possessed the opposite colour of his skin, so on the left side all the wrinkles were black. So were half of the lips split down the middle, the eyebrow, eyelashes and the whites of the eyes were black on the left side. The pupils were all white and perfectly reflected off the black surface. All of this was mirrored on the right side.
Under the coat a shirt was visible, a shirt decorated with fine lacework (of course in black and white) and behind a coat a sword. He turned to the poet and smiled, revealing his black and white teeth, perfectly mirror imaged.
“Oh hello, Maurits. I must be sleeping” the poet said softly, again dropping his head back and starring back at the ceiling.
“Where else would I reside, if not for your head?” His voice was deep and slightly raspy, with a strange mixture of menace and comfort that coloured it. In his left hand he held a purely white cigarette which produced white smoke, in his right hand he had a clear glass challis filled with a black liquid. His posture was slightly hunchbacked but barely noticeable, his demeanour was witty, poetic and sarcastic but always straight-forward, like an old shaman who spoke only in riddles but sometimes revealed a clear and precise, wise message.
“I’ve really fallen low now, haven’t I? All these thoughts are so damaging…”
“They are only natural. For you, anyways… with your early childhood sense of abandonment and alienation, the sense of isolation due to your unique brain chemistry. Only natural, my dear Vlad.” He tipped his glass as a salute and drank a small amount of the pitch black liquid, followed by a smoke from the white cigarette.
“My name is not Vlad, why do you keep referring to me as such?” The poets’ head never moved, remaining in the upward position, starring at the ceiling.
“Oh just a personal joke, don’t mind it. You don’t really believe those voices.”
The sudden jump from small talk to the main issue was expected from Maurits, he was never the one who would entertain you with trivial facts or satisfy your ignorance by exhibiting polite manners. The poets head dropped down and took a long stare at the black and white face which was here to resolve his traumas. It was true what he said, but still he wanted to enquire.
“How so?”
“Well you would have already jumped if you really lost all faith. The love you feel is still more powerful than the self-destruction your damaged self asks for. You know full well that she loves you. You needn’t any further proof.”
“It’s true… then why? Why do these thoughts linger on? Is there no healing for this, no medicine, no way of killing the side of me which seeks to kill me?”
The poet noticed the mirrored veins in the sides of the eyes, he saw them looking in him deep down inside to the core of his being. The feeling was just like everything else with this man; a mixture between dread and comfort, the sense of complete vulnerability, fear and acceptance.
“It began as a form of self-protection, an attempt at self-preservation; distance became your sanctuary in which you resided for a long continuum of your young life. Your cynical view of connectivity and intimacy was protecting your from further shattering of the glass statue of your soul which couldn’t take another blow. In truth you weren’t cynical, just deeply wounded by bitter experiences which your sensitive self has a problem comprehending and accepting. The world in your mind is greater than the one you live in.”
“That is not an answer to my question. Is there a way of mending these wounds?”
Maurits smiled, revealing his black and white teeth, perfectly mirrored, deeply enticing and slightly terrifying. “You know full well what people deeply search for, every one of them. It’s evident that you do, you are a poet, for love’s sake. By the mere realization that you are the universe experiencing itself, the entirety of everything having an existential crisis, you already know what this being is guiding towards…the well of infinite inspiration, deep satisfaction and undeniable meaning. In the waters of this infinitum you not only heal, but prosper, grow and evolve.”
The poets’ gaze was fixated on one point on the desk, not because of a particular quality or a point of interest on it, but because of the place in his mind and the deep thought he was engulfed in. He opened his mouth to speak but before a single sound came out of his throat, Maurits interfered:
“Of course not, darling! You need conformation just like everyone else. Look… yes the love comes from you, its nest is in you, but you only have the seeds of it, the growth can only come from another human being. Just think about all these words which clarify complex emotions; jealousy, apathy, guilt, loneliness, empathy, affection, sympathy, acceptance… most of these words and emotions themselves would not exist if you were the only human on the planet! The doubts that surface in your damaged little mind are quite normal considering the past events, they are not indicators of troubles or a lack of connection, but a sign of how deep that affection, love, empathy, care and connectedness is and how much it means to you! Both!”
“So…it’s not neediness? Is it not selfish?” The poets’ voice indicated vulnerability, the wounded child inside surfaced with the words and revealed the scars within. Maurits again smiled:
“It would be if the need was stemmed in selfish desire. If you needed to hear the love expressed just for you to feel good about yourself or to gain some self-importance, then it would not only be needy but disgusting and blasphemously evil. You need to hear it in order to express it, it gives you allowance to say it. Complex it may sound but let me clarify.”
He sat down near the window, gazing outside on the busy city below and far ahead. “You feel profoundly and deeply, you have allowed yourself to, you let her inside to see the true you because you feel deeply and profoundly enough to do so. Your artistic sense which stems from the sensitivity also wants to express it and it drives your inspiration and idea formation, your rational mind is working in synchrony with the emotional and thus producing intensely and expressing purely and honestly. You need to know it will be received because it is meant not for generality, but for one person, for her! The doubts have made you fear that the expression of your affection would drive her away, which is kind of the definition of stupidity, but never mind that. You are asking to confirm that your love can be expressed and you want to make sure it’s coming from both sides in equal measures.” He paused and turned to look the poet in the eyes, a childlike, happy smile on his face. “Quite normal.”
The poet smiled slightly with a sense of relief but still a slight worry, which didn’t go unnoticed and Maurits did not leave it be. “Of course you fear loss, everyone does, the vulnerability of things, their mortality is the engine and fuel of intimacy. Knowing that both of you will die one day and knowing, in rational terms, that will be the end of love is the driving force of this profound feeling. Naturally it’s not the only thing, you share much in common and vibrate on a very similar if not often the same frequency, but the fact that you know you will die makes it holy. Life is only beautiful because of death. White is only bright because of black.”
Maurits paused and smiled mischievously, like the grandfather who is about to reveal a grand secret to the young boy. His head lowered, looking at the ground, he approached the poet and said in a lower and quieter voice: “There is a way of making sure the love constantly grows... Keep discovering, keep exploring, keep experimenting and keep sharing, save no thought for yourself because there is nothing wrong with any of them, I can assure you of that in the larger scale, the scale you feel but can’t explain. Keep dwelling on philosophy and psychology, keep exploring art and the world, keep experimenting in lifestyle, keep enriching your senses in your everyday life and share every experience. You will not only feel vital in doing these things, but you will feel joyful and completely and utterly in love by sharing it with someone who understands and appreciates.” He whispered: “That’s the secret.”
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