Suffering against other emotions uniquely fashions a portal.
Though when it first hits, it becomes this null space.
And the thing is, it visits everyone. Anyone and everyone gets visited by our dear Tartarus no matter how much they rage into the conveniently lit night. No matter how much they’ll try otherwise.
They got the whole kitchen decorated and all it takes is some candles blown before a mid-life crisis gorges. You can see them purchasing tickets for another concert, a new country, an isolated cabin but our sun still sets.
When it does visit, when it does blotch over all and everything, it also cages you. You’re in it alone.
So you have this inevitably, combined with universality, and yet each visit is unique – each visit isolated, each visit waiting upon the one afflicted. As that’s the final piece to this insignia: nestled against inevitable, universal, it truly, truly, is unbetrothed. Misery may love company, but even in those splats of alcohol you’re still walking in that apartment alone.
You can’t work your way into the same apartment, even if you get the whole picture from the one condemned. You will not break suffering’s solitary demands. It ends in failure most often.
In some ways, you become a tourist, and then an eyesore: no matter how vicarious and voyeuristic of a masochist you can be, you won’t know what it’s like to get your heart stomped on that way, whatever you’re viewing. I won’t pretend to understand it: and any attempts are pale imitations. Whatever shivers and gut wrench that could come probably won’t match their stages of grief when it hits.
There are some types of suffering I won’t know or why – like feeling excluded or wrought with delusion from the sorority, maybe four years reminisce. The despair which trickles in as one caught a side-glance in the bakery storefront, best years behind you.
There are a lot more potent tragedies all around, if you ever did want to glean. Still, whoever walks in that apartment faces alone the demons waiting.
This is a saving grace in some way: if we could all completely experience the suffering around us in microscopic detail, it’d probably be a silent world.
When the suffer spell does come, eventually and solo, universal but distinct – maybe you can see how it’s a portal. When the apartment door closes, whatever happens next is a hushed moment we could only guess. Whatever happens next is anyone’s game, though maybe I’d be bold to extrapolate: the teardrop melds into a cellophane pathway, and whatever waits on the other side is crafted for the bearer.
Upon their silo’d hillside so they’ll probably see something no one else ever will. Whatever rests there is for them alone, however hollowed.
Though we can’t perceive it, each visit procures a groove upon the soul. And as they arrange the fractured to form so the wind passes to shape a tune. Starlight may melt it all away after we sing enough – our secret world-spanning orchestra making some cosmic applause.
A portal most aptly: a hope to visit some hidden wisdom.