A coffeeshop artist, you have found so many creative ways to state and restate your suffering as art, your victimization breathtaking nudes of you on the walls and everything done to you as living theater, played out again and again, encore performances for rapt audiences. A subtle shift, but not really, in the music they play here has made you rethink the basis of your performance art. You’ve seen others spin softer tales to match the times, think maybe you should.
This is not that.
This is scrubbing through the plaque on the arteries of what beats beneath all of that art.
A different kind of detective you’ll be, no longer looking for art in the stories, but rather sleuthing for beauty and meaning in the blackest sky of the darkest night of the deepest descent. Not to deny the night sky. There is no pretending a descent is anything other than what it is. Not to sprinkle artificial sweetener on poison. Nor even to create homeopathic doses of it to trigger immune responses.
This is not that either.
This is a wild dance with darkness. Facing, an embrace. You feel his grip on your nape, his lips on your neck, his other hand on your hip, leading this dance. You’ll still bleed, it’s still a dance with darkness. But this embrace, this wicked dance, it is where the honey comes from. Just enough to staunch the bleeding and save your life.
Dangerous lover, barely a lover at all. But a lover nonetheless.