It has taken two years (approximately) for me to bring myself to paper again. 
It often feels as though I have very little left to say. 
The truth is the last few years, though vibrant at times and a deep plunge into the abyss at others, have left me feeling rather lonely. Not only externally, but also within myself. 
It seems I have spent so much time attempting to smother the relentless conversation rumbling within me, that one day I woke up as if I were still asleep. The world pushed me away, and I pushed back, and back, and back until there was nothing left in my line of sight. 
And my heart, my soul, my tongue seemed to atrophy. 
Numb, and alone, and then more numb. 
Maybe I rotted in my slumber. 
Maybe I amputated more and more from my flesh, till I left nothing of substance to sustain.  
Alone with myself at night I wonder, could I find myself again? Am I capable of being the person I killed off in the loneliness? 
There was once a time where I had so much more to say. I could write you a book, I could tell you stories, I could put into words the abstract. But with so much coming out of me, I have never replenished, and now I have nothing to say. 

I don't know that anyone actually reads my blog. Maybe this too is me shouting at the abyss. 

My father spent the last moments of his life nearly a decade ago, trapped on an endless conveyor belt of cold hospital beds, ambulances, and an unforgivably empty house. 

It was his childhood home, left bare, skeletal almost - a distant memory of when it was once filled, first by his brothers and sisters, then by his children and wife, until it wasn't and couldn't be any longer. 

The last ride he took before he laid on a bed at the Urology ward of the public hospital in which he died, was one he took alone, aided and comforted by none, other than my mothers' voice in a telephone call, promising she would find a way to reach him as soon as she could. 

For as much as I could tell, this was always his life, isolated, stripped back and one of turmoil. 

He was on one hand, an intelligent man, well read, contemplating on a multitude of philosophies simultaneously. He believed in God, a vicious and terrible being of kindness, forgiveness and mercy. He was a talented artist, his books filled with haphazard sketches. In his youth, he sought knowledge, tracing overgrown grave stones through the history books.

There was hardly a thing you could mention that he was not well read on. 

On the other hand, he seemed to resent this in himself. 

He fought against compliments with true conviction, as if it were irrelevant, or irreconcilable that he was a person full of potential, bursting, but never manifest. 

Perhaps there was a greater deal of self loathing we knew nothing about. 

He often spoke of addiction and deliverance, grand epiphanies that lead to salvation, and then redemption.

But where did the root start to grow? 

Was reality so harsh a sensory nightmare, that it drove within him a chasm of despair, so deep that nothing, no matter how large, how solid, how real, could begin to fill it? 

Did he feel alone? Was he supported? 

Did he hate himself? 

And how do you, with such potential, end up losing so much in the end? 

Is simply having it not enough? Does God simply choose who to punish and who to spare? 
Is my blood not enough? Was his? 

Which is why at 2.a.m. I lie awake, my body is exhausted but my mind weaponised against me. 

I grieve first for the life my father never lived, who he could have been, had he been given the part of him he likely felt was missing. 

I grieve then for myself, for I am without some part of myself and live in constant, constant, constant, fear that I too will one day be trapped on a conveyor belt, bound and unable to escape. 

Simon Bolivar of his suffering wrote, “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth." They were in fact his last words.

"Every morning you will wish for evening; every evening you will wish for morning." 

Perhaps at the core of human conflict remains the never resolved debate of preference. One's preferences are not often budged by logical argument and reasoning. One such example is the divide between chocolate lovers and those who prefer vanilla ice cream. If hypothetically there were only two flavors in all of the world, those being chocolate and vanilla which do you prefer? Are you a chocolateer? Does vanilla activate your taste buds?

At this point, you are aware of which of the two you would easily devour. Likely, the thought of one excited you, it is deemed your favorite. Maybe, if you have any true sense in you, that choice was chocolate. Consider then for a moment the existence of vanilla. If in this world of flavor, vanilla ceased to exist, how would you know that you preferred chocolate? The thrill and enjoyment of chocolate would now become void of meaning. Your preference of one is predicated on the existence of the other.

This is an extreme over-simplification of what is known as a polar concept. The idea that some concepts do not exist without being weighed against each other. Many other such concepts exist within our world. One more cited example is the contrast between nothing and something. The argument states that to fully comprehend and define nothing, one must have an understanding of, "something." Nothing is then the absence, lack or opposite of something. Likewise to understand, "something," on some level the notion of nothingness must also be understood. One cannot exist without the other conceptually.

In a more general sense, our understanding of absence is interlocked with our understanding of presence. To know pain is to know happiness. To know joy is to know sorrow. They are two ends of the same line of ideology.

In the same way I know a great abundance of people with faith who seem to lose it. The same can be said of myself a short time ago. People around you seem to look at you differently the moment you ask. When the shame of doubt becomes too much, we often abandon faith entirely. No one has answers, no one seems to be willing to answer. Perhaps because the great Divine (and however you may perceive it) does not often communicate audibly, maybe because your heroes have failed you and possibly because the world around you is afire.  So you hide and bury and your soul lulls itself to sleep.

I would argue that faith and doubt are polar concepts. Doubt does not exist abstractly and arguably cannot be defined conceptually without an understanding of faith. To doubt is to lose faith. Faith then cannot be defined without doubt. Faith conceptually is void without doubt. To have one is to have an understanding of the other. The thing often shunned by religious communities is perhaps the only thing that can create true faith. There is value in uncertainty. There is merit to each question.

I'll be honest, I wrote this with a specific person in mind. You know who you are, I hope this helps. 

-Crumbling Cookie

Disclaimer:

I am no philosopher, nor do I claim to have an intricate understanding of polar concepts, this is merely the exposition of my personal thoughts

Photocredit : Federico Racchi https://www.flickr.com/photos/moja2/

Occasionally, specific thoughts tend to wrap themselves around the edges of my mind, refusing to leave without gaining my attention. The intertwining of agony and art has of recent, been one such thought.