Sonic Fiction

Sonic Fiction

In the ether of his discontent he grew acquainted with the bittersweet anxieties of being, those increasingly familar resonances of doubt, lurking and springing forth in fully formed thoughts like vestigial echoing fractals the center origin of which was the burgeoning self contempt and the lingering, incessant doubts, of sanity, of health and wellness, of love and connection, doubts that, like a waning, rising tide, ebbed and flowed but nevertheless kept him constantly submerged beneath the undertow, mercilessly, as he fought with all the might and willpower of a broken man, dangerously close to doom, grasping helplessly to breathe, never cracking the surface to draw breath. He was suffocating on himself. His thoughts raced. He felt as though he could hear truth discerningly. But he was mistaken. He was only able to comprehend the connection points that coincided with the deep abiding belief in his own limited truths, truths of his weakness, his insufficiency, his lack of wellness, his lack of worth.

And so in that total empty abyssal absence he must, with grit and determination, somehow manifest a seed of action. A change. Some harmony he cannot hear, but can feel, somehow, will form the song of his reprieve. He must be, despite all weakness cataloged in constant self reverie, despite all manner of infirmity and trauma, despite his incoherent lurches toward a path for success and the concomitant failure to reach it, despite the previous lifetime of loss etched in memory and experience like a monument to his failings, he must be strong.

He must come to know that love is stronger than his fear. That fear is not reality. That what is real is fundamental. That he and he alone is responsible for his beliefs. That he must take action. Brilliantly, brutally, unforgiving, he must take action. Half measures would avail him nothing. He must be ready to live as though his life depends on it. Because that was the least of all the things that depended on it.