Ferry of Dolor

From a tender age, the mischievous goddess Atë has chosen me as one of her ruinous subjects. It's like having my own personal angel and devil sitting atop my shoulders. Her tempting whispers in my ear were barbed and dangerous words veiled as butterfly kisses, and her hypnotic ideations were a subtle yet relentless pull into a purgatory I was utterly powerless to overcome. Each word that escapes her lips places a stone on my altar of constitution until I am burdened and leaden. I find myself immobilized, consumed by shame, yet too far gone to break free. I can only withdraw into a cocoon of solitary solace, where the outside world is a mere distant murmur. 

As I lay numb, a ghostly siren calls to me with a hypnotic song that is filled with hollowness and despair. It is an ill-fated song of nihility, pulling me to the edge of darkness until I teeter on the precipice of acquiescence. I know all too well that tragic bliss that follows when the inevitable plunge happens. Yet, as I try to pull back, my spirit refuses to listen. As I fall headfirst into the inky void below, my chest tightens, and my suffering screams come out as muted unease as the rush of my internal surrender hits me like a fist to the stomach. I can no longer escape as I'm engulfed by the murky depths of my tattered psyche.

I find myself adrift in the fetid waters of the river Styx, the decaying shadows of my fears and failures tearing at my sanity in a desperate bid for life. With each labored breath I endure and each erratic beat of my heart, I drift closer to the Acheron as the woeful screams of my internal trepidation intensify until I can no longer think of the lamentation to come. This tempting grasp of vacuity, the intense want to give in, makes it easy to relinquish reality's shackles and purge your sense of being.

It's as if I've imbibed on the sweet-tasting nectar of the Lethe. Obediently, I bow to the goddess of oblivion as she takes her ripened offering of cognizance, and as I succumb to the comforting numbness, I exhale in triumphant defeat and sink further into the abyss toward Tartarus. However, that freeing release from this mental toil is only short-lived, for the claws of Charon pull me from the undulating depths below, and the drowning fear of my languor sinks in, a stark reminder of the cyclical nature of my surrender.

But alas! That icy grip that held me was not that of a hooded figure ready to ferry me to the Elysian Fields of Paradise. Instead, I am met with eyes personified. Outwardly serene but harboring a dark arbiter within those blackened pupils of judgment. With no coin for passage and an outcast in society's eyes, the scales of the Goddess Dike tip in disfavor, and I am deemed unworthy. So, I am cast from the promised vessel, banished with such force that my lungs can take no breath, my heart is in arrest, and my soul is rent from the flesh.

I find myself vagrant on the sooty shores of the Cocytus, surrounded by the spectral embodiment of happiness, pride, and self-love. We writhe in unison for what feels like one hundred years as the torrent of frigid embers from the Phlegethon burns us to the marrow, and the wailing becomes so deafening that I fear my head will burst. And, just when I feel I can endure no more, the warmth of Apollo's light washes over me.

His light shines like a golden sun in the blackened expanse, and the warmth of his presence dispels my Cimmerian essence. I'm lifted from the chasm with wings of serenity, and the feeling of pure bliss intensifies the closer I fly toward that sun of promise. As I pass that jagged precipice that was the dawn of my demise, the traitorous siren and paltry ghosts of my subconscious are quelled by the soothing symphony of Apollo's lyre. With each pluck of a chord, a piece of my soul heals, and I become whole once more. Colors become more vibrant, sounds seem more melodic, and the sweet sense of touch intensifies as I'm embraced by the nostalgic feel of sensation.

With that beautiful light within reach, I spread my hands out, anticipating the euphoria that would surely follow. Tragically still, I am tainted by Hades' touch, and his desolate sigil slowly consumes that fleeting happiness. Like poison, the dreaded darkness courses through my veins with each drum of my heart until the calescent light becomes unbearable and the luminous wings of serenity burn to ash. Like the ashen remains of lucent hope, I fall like Icarus back into obscurity. I watch in bitter despair as the billows of darkness snuff out the sun, and I wait in dreaded anticipation of the torment below.  

Like a macabre puppet in Oizys' playhouse of desolation, I'm thrust once more atop that precipice of internal limbo, and that insufferable siren begins her bewitching lullaby anew. At the same time, the remaining warmth from the sun seeps from my pores like tears of mourning, and I find myself hollow once more. I curse this ecliptic dance as my partner of melancholy forever guides me to that crumbling edge of oblivion and plunges me into that barren wasteland of gloom and despair.

This sojourn is my never-ending trek in life. Like the goddess Persephone, we are forced to live in the Tartarean when all we dream of is a world of mirthful happiness and peace. But the Moirai spun my thread of fate with dark intent, and I must endure until Atropos deems my time at an end. However, Aion's cycles of despair have a way of breaking the most Herculean of souls, and I wonder how long my mind can endure…

Oh, Eleos! God of Mercy! Save me from this ferry of madness!  

For I fear that if I succumb to the darkness…

I might relish in the emptiness.