“Father, father, where are you going? O do not walk so fast.
Speak, father, speak to your little boy, or else I shall be lost.”
Speak, father, speak to your little boy, or else I shall be lost.”
The night was dark, no father was there. The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew."
The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew."
The Little Boy Lost
William Blake
William Blake
Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Among all forms of existence, shadows are the most wretched beings, for they are devoid of soul, and within them dwells only a feeble and fearful weeping, crushed under the yoke of inscrutable demons.
Yet one must not forget that even the most repulsive of creatures was born from an innocent genesis — the loving union of its creators — for life itself is a miracle of love. Nor must we forget that history is written by those who win the war; thus, it will never favor the defeated, who must wander in exile, stripped of their truth. But every monster once had a mother. Every Cain was born of an Eve. Even Lucifer has a story to tell.
In this place, there is neither day nor night, and the only concept familiar to me is silence — interrupted fleetingly by the sound of an agonizing breeze, a whisper, a palpable lament. Though I do not know its origin, I suspect it rises from the black mountains... I have walked so long trying to reach that distant edge that I no longer remember when I first arrived. Perhaps I’ve always been here? I have lingered too long. I’ve forgotten my story and my origins. For now, I am but a drifting entity in this endless desert. A shadow surrounded by the oppressive vastness of black mountains, outlined by a crest of spectral whiteness that dissolves into an infinite horizon. A ghost wandering in desolation, cloaked beneath a sky of oppressive, murky clouds stretching into the remotest reaches of this shadowy realm.
There is no deeper confinement than the ubiquitous torment that slowly erodes the spirit.
There is no prison more impenetrable than the one built within the mind.
There is no jail more infinite than the one without walls.
There is no prison more impenetrable than the one built within the mind.
There is no jail more infinite than the one without walls.
