Of the statue and the well

Baby, call me, I'm feeling so lonely. You're so out of reach. Need somewhere to hold on to. There's no way I'm gonna call you. Knowing how busy you are, wrapped up in your own life, feelings and unfulfilled desires. So where can I turn? When I feel this unpronounceable solitude. I'm all alone, no ground under my feet to walk upon, no tree trunk to lean on, no railing to hold on to. What do I do? Desperation rushes with the the flow of my blood through me, tension, loss, frustration marks my every muscle. Where are you to embrace my wreched self and tell me that everything will be ok. Surrounded by countless bodies and faces and spirits, I feel so incredibly alone. Not a soul to turn to in my despair. Suffering in isolation, who should care? What for? Day to day is too important. Too much to do, too much to think of. Too many responsibilities, busy. Don't care. Too caught up with oneself. No humanity, no compassion, no time for anyone who don't serve a purpose for the self. Each one on their own, a lonely battle, a lonely fight. Where are my people? Where is my pack? Those loyal, faithful and unselfish. The additional arms, hands and legs, the drumcircle of hearts, the community of minds. Where are they? Those that I belong with? Those that care to be there when I can't walk on my own, when reason fails and the heart stalls? Those who understand, reach out and share their strength, those who care beyond themselves, their own time, and shelter those lost and strange. Today I'm lost and strange - a stranger in my own home. A source of darkness on the streets - see my sadness reflected on the eyes that regard me. What a strange sight I must be today. Like a deep well that loses itself in darkness, soundlessness and the humid chills of the unknown, or like a worn-out stone statue in the rain, water wearing down its face. Be careful not to get near it for you don't know whether it may crumble upon you. Turn away from this sight of sadness that drew your attention mysteriously to it, for a split second, just long enough to make you realize you want nothing to do with it. Why waste your time for a lost work of art? For a forgotten well of burried memories?

There are things that can't be choice. They just happen. Free will is but a witness in a theatre of matters earthly and divine, mysterious and demonic. There are spirirts that will evoke nothing but tears of sorrow in you, even if you are a laughing clown, a jolly jester. There are spirits that will make you laugh, regardless of the sadness that may fill your heavy heart. There's a spirirt that gives you life in death, and one that irrevocably ends your living days. The spirits that ail me seem inapplacable and have grown too strong for me to face them alone. Or so it seems. I really gotta be putting off a very unpleasant vibe - the lady at the table next to mine took her things and moved further away. I find my sadness unbearable. How dare I show up in public that way! Transparent as I am. She looks so incredibly sad now herself. Depressed. Another reflection. There surely must be somethig in the air. So in this time of human societal organization, where is the witchdoctor you can turn to for wisdom? The witch you can turn to for magical words? The shaman who holds life's secrets and speaks the language of the spirits? The wiseman who has the appropriate advice? There is no doctor I can turn to. Psychologists are phony suffering souls. No hotline can look into my heart. No modern creature will have the eyes to see the world beyond the running trends of egoism, superficiality, capitalism, competition, escapism and concrete walls.

Could I be writing my final note? A sad goobye to a lost world in which no halt can be found for a lost soul? Wondered the woman who chose to no longer be near my depressing scent. Now she glances over, relieved to be at a distance, still curious about that frightening well, the eroding statue. There is magnificence in horror, adrenaline in fright. Will the statue cease to be in the pouring rain? Will the well turn dry? Now she can't stop staring. She's in awe. There is beauty in suffering, comfort in chagrin: "I'm not the only ugly one! See that figure of stone how its face is full of craters , its chest is full of holes! See how its legs are about to break, its fingers useless stumps! See its ugliness, it makes me pretty, pretty glad I am not it! Alas, from a distance its death to me will be useful. I am no artist who could it fix. Alas, thank God that I don't have to! Each on their own, you without me! Your pain makes me feel better, I'll gladly watch you crumble in the rain!" "Glad to have been of service," says the statue. "I'll be around for the next rain. Each storm fills with more water the well. We're here to suffer so you won't know hell." There are the distant observers, the fools who never touch the face of life, who never listen to its heartbeat, nor feel its blood warm their skin. There are those careless spirirts, the inhumane ones without compassion. The ones that plague the caring souls. Those that take advantage of the good ones, those who only see themselves. Stale they are, just like Narcissus, prisoners of their own will, a will that extends to noone, a will as useless as the reflection of their mirror image in a stagnant pond.