All for the best

Sometime in the early 90's, actress Sharon Stone said in interview, "My mind is a dark alley, you should never go in there alone."

I liked that when I first read it.  I thought it was clever, and fun.  I also thought I related.  Perhaps I did.  Perhaps I want to.

I've come to realize though, that my mind is more like the Room of Requirement. I have to walk past the doorway to the deeper recesses, concentrating intensely on the thing I want to access.  I have to make a number of passes before the door opens.

Typically once I get inside, I find...

...every time...

A very long hallway.  More doors, on either side.  Stretching for miles.  Or...further.  Who knows.  If there is limit to imagination, then that's where the hallway stops.  Each side of the hallway lined with doors, going as far as the mind's eye can see.

There is a room at the top of the hallway.  This room is a lounge.  This is where I begin my jourey, if indeed I wish to travel.  Sometimes, just coming in this room is enough.  In this room are two large leather chairs adjacent each other.  Between them is chessboard.  This is where I sit when I need to meditate.

The chess board is dusty.  I think about blowing it off, and taking a seat.  This would probably be for the best. I look at the single white knight on the board, and feel the pull.  I know this would be the better choice right now.  There is a tempest beneath my surface, and I can almost hear the words of the old sage, "Peace. Be still."

I tell that old jew bastard to fuck off.  Sometimes we need the tempest.  Sometimes we need the chaos.  Sometimes we need the raging storm to come in and tear it all down.  Peace comes after the storm.  Not during.  There is a clarity that can only come while being battered by the forces we can't control.  Let chaos reign.

I turn from the chessboard.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe another day.  Not tonight though.  Tonight I need to check on something.

I start toward the hallway of many doors.

Just to the left, of the hallway entrance, there is a large counter.  Very much like where once checks out books in a library.  And behind the counter is Beatrice.  Very much like a librarian.

(Yes, there is a guardian of memories in my brain, and yes her name is Beatrice.  You do what you want with your own brain.)

Beatrice is older than time.  Beatrice was there to witness the war between the Titans and the Gods.  Beatrice watched through thin wire frame glasses, as Centurions nailed that skinny kid to a cross.  Beatrice once punched Ben Franklin in the nose, but he was a little drunk, and he was a little horny.

Beatrice is surly. She is mine while I am alive, and then she will move on.  I am just another blip to her.  She is everything to me.

"Are you here to see Barnabus?" She asks me.

(I also have a Barnabus, but he's a different character for a different time.)

"You know why I'm here."

"You should really see Barnabus.  He's pissed."

I just look at her. We lock in a staredown, and she's much better at this than I am.

"Please." I whisper.  "I just need to check."

"No you don't." She tells me.  "It has been making some noise, but it's fine."

"I believe you.  I do.  I just..." I trail off.

"Fine. You know what to do."

And I do.  I've done this before.

"Thank you." I tell her, and then step in to the hallway.

Once I cross the threshold, I no longer need to walk.  The corridor does the work.

The doors on each side fly past me.  A blur.  Everything in my head cosmos moves at indecribable speed.  The doors a blur.  Each one a passage to a different place.  Some real.  Some very much not.  I see all the people I have known.  I see all the people who have existed in my life.  I see all the people who have only ever existed in my mind.  Some smile and say hello. Some scream at me to stop and listen to them.  

I don't.

I see  Barnabus in his room.  He's drinking coffee. Black. He gives me a glance, but then turns away.  We'll have our discussion later.  He's going to rip me a new fucking asshole....

...and I really deserve it.

I'll take that beat down, but not tonight.

The rooms continue to fly past.  Millions of them.  Each one full to bursting. Some I've never been in.  Some I'll never go into again.  Many need attention.  Many, I'd like to throw a grenade into.

I feel like I'm standing there forever...but...I'm in there now, and time doesn't exist.  It's very likely that when I finally come out of all of this, real time will not even notice that I've been gone.  Here though, I stand, and watch the memories, and the lives, and the people, and the faces. I see them all.  So...

So much.

I have to close my eyes.  It's too distracting.  It's too painful.  It's too happy, and sad, and full, and I need to shut it out.

Finally I hear it.  The sound I've been waiting for.

The steady thump thump.  The pulse of me.  The rhythm of my existence.

Funny isn't it?

We have from the beginning of us, associated all the things we feel, with that thumping bumping lump of flesh....but really...

Really it's all through the brain.  Everything real and imagined starts first in the mind.  And through the mind, we reach the heart.  The heart of us.  The heart of me.  The room....

I am not here to go in to that room.  I just need to check.  I need to see for myself.  Beatrice reassured me that all is well, and to my knowledge, Beatrice has never been wrong.  

But that's how we are.  That's who we are.  When we need to know...REALLY need to know...all the reassurance in the world, doesn't hold a candle to self assurance.  Everyone in the world can tell me that New York exists, but until I put my feet on the asphalt of it, it was never really real.  And I need to make sure this door is really real. In the sense that it is really real in the realm of my imagination.

(Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on Earth should that mean that it is not real?)

And there it is.  The last door in the corridor, marking the end of it all.  Not on either side, but directly in front of me.

And there they are. The chains and locks around the door.  Criss crossing from top to bottom.  Across from side to side.  Motherfucking Jacob Marley chains.  Thick.  Sturdy.  Each one secured with multiple locks.  Hundreds of locks.  Thousands.  Combination locks.  Key locks.  Riddle locks.  Puzzle locks.  Each link of each chain, locked, and secure.

I check each one.  I pull.  I twist.  I make sure they are all holding.  I have to be sure.

I take my time.  I am meticulous.  The sound is overwhelming.  Hypnotic.  That steady thump.  In here it is larger than me.  Each thump rattles each chain, and each lock, threatening to burst through...but...

So far...holding steady.

I turn my back to the door.  I sit on the floor and rest against it.

I know why I have done what I have done.

I don't doubt my decision.

I ruminate on the cost.

And I listen.

I listen.

I listen to that thump.

I listen to those chains.

And when I listen past the thumps and the chains, I hear...

(fuck)

I hear her.

And that is the sound that penetrates deeper that any thump, or chain rattle.

There she is.

And all I have to do, is let her out.  To let her in.

And I sit.

And I listen.

And she...

She is speaking to me.  Words that I won't share.

They are not words of hate, or anger.  It would be so much easier if they were.

No.

She is speaking in metaphor of hope.

And Fantasy.

And I know she lies.

Or maybe I hope they are lies.

Maybe I am the liar.  Truth is, that's far more likely.  I've had more practice.

And this is my torture.

This is my moment.

This is the gift I give myself tonight, so that I can wear my mask tomorrow.

I stand up.  I turn toward the door, and place my forehead against it.  Links of chain digging in to my flesh.  I listen to her.  She knows I'm there.  Her voice is close.  As though she too is leaning against the door, just the other side.

I apologize.

I offer grattitude.

And benediction.

And then there is silence.

The doors begin again.  Flying past me.  This time the opposite direction.  I am going back. In here my face is wet.  When I return, it won't be.

I close my eyes again.  This time blocking out all the passing doors.  I need to hold this on my breath.  I know the chains are on the locked door, and I know that I will be better in the morning.  But right now, in this timeless passage, I need this solitary moment to not be okay.

And that's okay.

And it is doors. And stars. And planets. And galaxies. And I see it all.  All of my creations that may or may not someday see light beyond this corridor.  I am weightless, and I see that I am bigger than everything, and smaller than it all.  I am in the storm, and I am the storm.  I am the creator of these worlds, and they have created me.  I am the stories I will tell, and they are the stories need told.

And I am again, now outside the corridor.  It is finished.  I am satisfied.  I have accomplished what I've come to do.  My worlds are safe.  The pulsating room at the end, is secure.  All is well.

"Did you get what you came for?" Beatrice asks, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"You know I did."

"You remind me of someone." She tells me. "You are quite a bit different, but there are ghosts of the familiar.  He was a bit mad.  A bit bad.  Dangerous to know."

"He also became legend." I reply.  "I'm happy in smaller ponds."

"He let himself have more fun than you do." Her eyes are twinkling.  She knows my weakness.

"I hope to not hurt anyone in the ways he did." I tell her.

"He hurt nobody more than himself." She's baiting me, but I don't feel like biting.

"I dunno.  He's not the one who committed suicide."

"That's what I mean." She says.

"Fuck you Beatrice." 

I hear her laughing as I go to leave.  The gravel voice of an old woman in my head, and...

And I am laughing too.

I have checked.

I have verified.

I am the monster that I need to be, for me to live in a monstrous world. Peace be still and all that jazz.

Now if only Barnabus would get that stick out of his ass.