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A Heart of Magma & an Obelisk of Onyx

Updated: Feb 8, 2023

Apathy vs. Capacity

Wednesday, January 18th, 2023


I've been feeling dull recently and I can't quite put my finger on a reason as to why. I haven't been feeling anything good nor bad, and neither anything in-between which is where I like to reside.

Even if I feel negative, I typically welcome its company because its presence is often an opportunity to learn. No matter its difficulty to accept or its sting in all, I try to enjoy its coming and going.

So, my newfound indifference almost frightens me. I'm so accustomed to my emotions feeling as ferocious as though I were stuck under a torrent or trapped in a snare, but it seems as if they've gone from me.

I've learned they're often so compelling that I'm merely a passenger on their vessel. Their wakes behind them might leave tears or contempt, but I feel neither. All the same, it's not as if those tears ever culminate; no, they've always refused to fall against my every effort. However, though I cannot weep, that doesn't imply I do not care for their visits or their meanings.

Have I finally been gifted what I've prayed for, my emotions cast away from me? Is this emptiness? Is this the void of that fire in my heart or that chill in my spine?

If it's true, why do I still hope a shred of me could feel? If it's true, should I not relish the feeling or ... no, the absence of feeling?

I thought I would praise this moment, but something is wrong. Are we not meant to feel? But of course we are! Have I prayed, then, for a whim I thought impossible and now it's been granted? Have I been cursed into numbness by consequence?

Oh, how terrifying it is to wonder!

So be it; I'll make it a challenge then. Apathy will have to earn me as I won't go quietly into her icy grip. I can sense her cold glare, but I will drum up as best I can something that might stir my emotions.

But where to muster an opposition against such senseless nothing? Words alone seem frail in comparison to her claws of callousness and her fangs of lack.

My drawings reflect some of my emotions and thoughts. Obviously—that's their sole purpose! Yes, I've illustrated well the web that restrains me or the flower that gives me hope; my heart seeping away from me or the chain wrapped around my throat.

They will suffice.

However, they along with my words are just shards of a broken mirror—pieces of a whole that I can't quite evoke in totality nor likely ever will. Still, they must mean something, so I will not allow their faint significance to elude me if only to force Apathy into hunting harder for her trophy.

As I examine my sketches, I see the reflection of myself through the shadows and shades that stare back at me. Are these depictions a summation of who I am? Sorrow, solitude, heartache, despair, judgment, and lust?

I think not. They're only a molar on a much larger maw. They may not be a complete sum of me, no, but they are a branch; a bough among a thousand more. It makes me curious, what do others see?

I see their reactions of angst and aversion as they look upon my works in uneasiness. Do those who observe them discern their purpose?


Surprise wouldn't strike me if they simply spurned away from their meanings because of a stark, unfiltered portrayal of pain. Am I utterly alone then?

Dear God, turn me into a pillar of salt. Make my heart magma and my soul, slag. Make me a monolith of obsidian and an obelisk of onyx for, even despite my seclusion, the husk of my former self pleads to me for comfort alongside reclamation!

I've had a recurring desire of late. I want someone to ask me, "Do you love me?" as she listens to my heart. I laugh at the childish idea, but I'd already know the answer if it were only a testament of my capacity to love. I would tell her,

"I love you more than the leaves love the wind, or the flowers love the sun.

I love you more than the moon loves the tides or the stars, the night skies.

I love you more than the frogs love their croaks or the swords, their sheathes.

I love you more than paint loves the canvas, or a thread loves to be webbed.

I love you more than the peacocks love their boasts, and the beetles love the oaks.

Yes, I love you, and this much I know to be true."

No matter any level of my zeal toward something as lost as romanticism, am I still to be tamed by time and bridled by age with every emotion devoid from me?

Please, I welcome these tears, but why won't they fall away? Surely, like my love for petrichor is a product of rain, I could shed but a single tear in the absence of pain!

I was wrong, I admit it. The lack of feeling is not my salvation. Yes, I had dreamed of a frost over my heart, but I had not considered the consequences if it were to have come true.

"Would it not be easier to feel nothing?" I so casually asked the Heavens. How foolish of me!

No, I simply refuse. When this fear of my foolish aspirations deserts me in time, I'll be damned if I allow Apathy to devour me!

Oh, Lord, let me feel that which is wholehearted and true. Whether it be joy or pain I will welcome it, and I will not take my emotions for granted again. If only I had known a disconnect from humanity can't be the solution to struggle, I would not have wished so carelessly. If only I had known the weight of my soul, I would not have dreamed so naively.

And if I am meant to be but a monument of Apathy, let it be diamond instead of slate—let it be emerald and glass instead of onyx and ash! Perhaps, in my pylon of ore and torpor, I will not forsake your creation a second time. Amen.

Translation I: Be careful what you wish for.

Translation II: Feeling reminds us that our heart is beating, and our lungs inflate; relish every moment of it.

Translation III: Beware, beware, Apathy and her stare.
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