The End and the Boxing Ring
Every End is a new Beginning. It’s cliché. It’s cold and pathetic. You can neither die, nor quite be reborn. You want to forgive; you want to forget. But you cannot. Almost, but not quite, it’s all fake. Life seems fake. A simulacrum in the womb of Frankenstein’s Bride. It’s dead. And yet it’s also walking. Legs twisted, womb burning like after labour, even if you never had a womb, never had a child. Your hands quiver, and your lips. Fire is burning, scorching your insides. There is no more you. You’re crucified; you’re burnt. You can smell the stench of burnt flesh, and acid is in your mouth. You’re worn, to the very last shred of understanding.
You know there should be a new beginning, but you see no future. None that you can picture yourself in. You want to hold onto the idiomatic rope, but there are no ropes to be on. You’re falling, and falling, and falling. You no longer care if there are ever going to be any hands to hold you. You’re gone. On the inside, you’re gone. But your body keeps lingering on, electrocuted every day in spite of all the poison prescribed by your doctors. There is no ending Pain. It’s too capital to let you go numb. It’s too small to swallow you whole. It’s your tomb, for the time being.
And, worst of all, you no longer see the time bomb ticking. Clocks and watches cease to exist. Hope is beyond the horizon of meaning. There is no meaning left. The spiral of meaning-making is gone from your sight. Pain is still pumping your heart to beat. Pain is performing your CPR, holding you crucified, holding you down so you don’t soar away into the Lands of No More.
Your heartbeat gets rapid. It runs faster and faster as if trying to catch up with lost time. Your stomach fasts, though you’re trying to feed. There’s simply No Meaning. None that makes sense. There’s you and Pain, having a tête-à-tête. You are alone. You don’t want anyone else. None should see you like this: a cripple, an imbecile, no swearing or pun intended.
You’ve been through a war. And wars leave debris. You are the debris. You’ve lost weight. A lot more than you thought. Is that the weight of Hope? Truth and Death are holding you, not letting you cross the border. It isn’t your time yet, you know. There’s no point in begging. But how can you help when your Hope is gone? When she moved out, she took it all: your fine bone china dreams, your mattress, your Pegasus bike. It’s all gone. Your room is empty. Empty of meaning, empty of solace. Even if someone is kind enough to comfort you, there is no point. You’ve reached the point of no return.
And yet you are here. There’s blood in your veins. There’s blood in memories, too. And fire, and flood. There is no denying that. It happened. It’s part of what was. Didn’t Hope take it all, too? But no, the garbage she left. The garbage is all yours to deal with, scrub clean. Maybe repurpose. Maybe someday. You feel like a drug addict. Prescription drugs are your best friend. And yet they leave you when you most need them. They leave you right here: on the threshold of Hell. Purgatory. Though you are not religious, not anymore, even if once upon a time you could pray and believe. There’s no more fun in that. You know that Hope is gone. There is no way having her back.
Hope is your ex. And she isn’t jealous of Pain. The two of you can have your time. If you’re lucky, Death will join in, you’ll have a threesome. It’s army humour. But you can’t help it. Can’t be rude on a date. You’re not really looking for anything, not even sex. But Pain is still there, expecting some feedback. Fuck Pain! But Pain stays. Even when you’re rude, Pain is faithful.
The torture seems to be your only drive left. You start counting the tides and ebbs, the highs and lows. You start counting your breaths. In and out. In and out. In goes Humour, out goes Pain. Humour and Pain are two rivals, two teasers. You cannot help but smile. Humour and Pain are boxing. Who is going to win? You want to root for Humour, but Humour is weak. Pain’s a master. Pain’s a black belt. Humour. Well, Humour’s just a dick, fucking your brain. He makes you laugh when you don’t want to. Your ribs hurt. You’re chocking on chortle. But Pain is back with her superb left swing. Right under your chin. Right to the marrow. Fuck!
You’re tired of being polite. And tired of mirrors and make up. Nothing can hide you from Pain. She drives you on. You’re No One. You must stay on in the Boxing Ring. Pain is going to beat the shit out of you unless you listen. “Pay attention!” Pain says. “Pay attention! Listen! Breathe! Fuck Humour! Fuck Hope! Just listen! Listen to me! I’m here. Right behind your back. I’m your shadow, there is no running away. Face me if you dare. Stay in the knock-out zone if you so choose. But not long. I’m going to make you get up. Humour and Hope are no sparring partners. They’re weak, they can’t hold attention. Come fight me! Get up! I’m counting.”
And up you are indeed, though spitting blood. It turns out you’ve still got some sleeve. There’s lots of snot. You always run out of tissues. No morphine can suck it all up. OK! You’re back. Spar with me! Spar with me so Heaven can hear! Maybe that will draw Death. Sometimes he comes to watch. Death is curious, too. How many rounds can you last? Will Pain be the victor or you? The call is yours, in fact. Just master martial arts! You’re No One already, with No Where to Fall. You’ve been on the ground; you’ve hit the rock bottom. It's tough. There’s only way up. Get up! I want to see you box.
And there you go, beating the shit out of the mental boxing bag. You’re going to get Pain, or Pain’s going to get you. But you’re going to put up a good fight. Death is watching. You want to stay in good grace. Death is watching. He winks an eye: If anything happens, Death is going to extract you. It’s fun. It’s actually fun! You’ve got a follower. And what influence! If Death is watching, so are the gods. Oh, Lord! You cannot fuck up this fight. Shit! Shit! Shit! You’ve got to give it your best. Have you got your hook ready? Now? Swing! Swing with me! I’ll even let you kick. Let’s do some judo and jiu-jitsu! If you promise to be alert, I’ll teach you some tai-chi, then qui-gong. We’ll have fun, I promise! You’re part of No One. You can wear any face that you like. No One expects anything. You can pick your cards, your moves. You’re in control.
Now steady! Let’s not take it too fast! There will be a lot of beating on the way. We can’t help that. But we’ll make it. Together, we’ll make it, we will. Just give me your hand! My name is Pain, your faithful servant and Master. You are my student, the End. One day you’ll end me. But I know I’ll come back. And if I don’t, just know you’ve been reappraised. Death will come and collect you. So, what have you got to lose? Let’s sweat it all out! Let’s sweat in the Boxing Ring! You can thank me later, now it’s time to fight. It’s time to get high. Tomorrow’s work again and again. Let’s work out, let’s get you in shape!
If you can’t spar, how are you going to love? You’ll have to stand your ground. Your nose will bleed. And you won’t be allowed to hit back. You must never beat your Love. But you can learn to eschew Her. Learn to be more agile! Learn to become Her shadow! And when She thinks She’s got you, you’ll make a step aside. Just a tinsy-tiny step. She’ll fall in your hands. You’ll go for the deep. If you so want to, then kiss! How’s that for a Happy End? Now, come spar with me, come spar! Don’t keep your date waiting! Let’s get you in shape! Learn to switch off Pain and turn on Fire! Learn to get the End that you want, learn to turn the tables!
Most people don’t even know how to do proper dancing. They’re so obsessed with their moves and all sorts of ludicrous things that they hardly notice their partner. It’s called social dancing. The man usually leads, and the lady follows. But that’s not what a proper dance should be like. It should be very much like sparring, only a bit more erotic. There should be room for improvisation. Both should listen to the other. Listen, listen! Pay attention to your partner’s mood, don’t comment! Become a master of small moves! If your partner is sad, you’ll make her smile. She’ll see you’re paying attention. Mess up the routine, you don’t want to bore her. Your seeming mistake will draw out a laugh. Be there! Be there all alert! One tiny motion can take her breath away. Make it unexpected! You’re the Shadow. You come out of No Where. You’re No One. They won’t see you coming: a lightning before the nightingale sings.
Just watch out! You may get addicted to Pain. Your relationship will get intimate. What if you no longer want to end it? What if you no longer know who the Master is and who is only a student? What if it isn’t Pain that you’re fighting? What if it is the Beloved come in disguise? Perhaps you’ve met the One and Only, more than most ever get a glimpse of. What if your Pain is the Beloved? What if you happen to pull off Her veil? Will you be able to withstand that Fire? Eternal Fire. Meaning will spiral out of your grasp. There will be no end, no beginning. Just the Night of Eternal Love-Making.
Sometimes the Beloved comes as a fairy, but mostly She visits as a crone. She may look young, but Her life is crippled. Or She may seem old, but you’ll notice a spark in Her eyes. Don’t hold onto Her! Pain will find you, transform you. The Beloved is holding you. Don’t ever feel less than although She feels more. That’s just the nature of Pain. Pain is intense, and Pain is faithful. Pain will get you back on your feet. Then She’ll withdraw, She’ll hide. The Beloved is watching you. Make your own steps! Coax Her out of Her Realm! Listen! Listen! Pay attention! She’s your breath and She is your soul. She’s nothing without you at all.
She isn’t looking for sex. She’s looking for resonance. If you can touch the core of somebody, know that you have loved. Your paths may never cross again, but the string you set in motion will go on singing even after your death. Such is the Song of Songs; such is the power of Silence. Words can weave webs as sweet as honey, but Silence is the Queen Bee. The Beloved who listens, the One that you seek.