Musings of a Mongoose - 21. The Beholder

It seems strange to me, to feel grief now

After having lost so many

And losing them in repetition.

I feel like I lost my parents a thousand times

And they're still alive.

My sister's body lives on,

Yet her mind is all but gone

A shred of herself, haunting her flesh like a ghost

Who barely remembers who she is.

Perhaps dementia is a common thing we all experience,

But not in such drastic of ways.

Perhaps we all experience one thousandth of that shifting landscape

Where the colors drain away

And the sweet melodies we all knew

Are the only thing to remain.

I knew a boy once

Who liked to swing

Who saw himself in everything

The world reflected in his eyes like ripples on a forest pool

Where echoes play in the twilight

Calling our own names

As Narcissus dips his hand into the drink

Before wanting to swallow himself for the pain of what he sees.

We are the children of our own delusion

Giving up the life we're given

To the demons we forge in private fires

To burn away the shame we carry

Why do we grieve ourselves while we are still alive?

Is it beyond resuscitation?

Are we lost to the spinning maze of deteriorating mind?

We could become greater than ourselves in an instant,

The moment we realize we are more than ourselves

And that nothing is ever lost

It merely transforms.

A reflection is an illusion.

An echo is a memory living on in rippling air.

And the mind tracks it all, in fear of letting go.

Perhaps the grief is just that fear of drowning in the forest pool

The darkness inside the cocoon of our self-reflection

Where the self dies by confrontation with all that it is

And ourselves begin, rippling out to all that is.