Lae and I were chatting the other day how he got stuck in an uncharted area of DDO that he has still yet to tell me, and he sent me this:
“I stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back.”
Something about that was SO beautiful and profound to me, and when he told me it was a quote by Nietzche, a German philosopher, I just had to look into it.
The true quote, taken from his work Beyond Good and Evil, goes as follows:
“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster… for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.”
After doing some quick research on the meaning behind this… I have come to fall in love with this particular philosophy. The abyss doesn’t necessarily represent an endless chasm of good or evil – rather, it is representative of the reader’s truth.
Exploring the theme of monstrosity and humanity is a common one in many of literature, like Geek Love and Frankenstein. When presented with the moral dilemma of fighting for justice, who is to say that you yourself cannot be corrupted? That you become a monster in the process of it all? It’s something I’ve been watching as of lately, a lot of vigilante/war/action TV shows and movies I’ve been watching with War. Especially Dare Devil. The exploration of understanding where that personal line is for you is precisely what the abyss refers to; when you’ve reached a point to where you can see the end of the abyss, is when it “stares” back at you. It is a beautiful, powerful, and eerily evocative statement that tells you, “the only way to find out is to stare – deeply – into the abyss”. An “endless search for truth”, and when you find that the abyss stares back, that’s when you know you’ve hit rock bottom.
The question is, where is that personal limit for you?
Once again I stare up at the ceiling, devoured by moving shadows. These demons that ever so lurk silently, but there, right before my eyes. Once again, I stir alongside the awakening of these spirits.
They consume me like Midsommar’s fire, silently incinerating my body. But they cannot reach my heart, for it is safe within the grasp of a familiar man; he who lies invisible beside me in my bed. He whose ghostly arms envelop me like a blanket of snow, protecting me always.
Breathing into me, I rest: once again, forevermore.
Your words give me the light. Continue reading
Letting go is a form of catharsis I have a hard time with. It’s contradictory: it’s freeing, and then hollow at the same time. The sorrow of losing sometimes is heavier on some days, but I put trust and faith into my steps and walk towards tomorrow.
It teaches me to cherish something or someone while they are still there. To know that nothing lasts forever, or at least most things, and that the beauty of the human heart is ever so fleeting. It is like listening to a song filled with emotions: its riveting, broken chords woven into a comprehensible and beautiful melody. The little moments that build the full composition that is art. To be appreciated whether by note or holistically. The piece doesn’t last long, and a part of me may wonder if it is worth searching for the name of the song, and its soul. Instead, some are left to be only enjoyed in that moment, and while I desperately want to know, the greater part of me lays still, alone on my bed, with my back turned against it. As thoughts pervade my mind and heart, my better judgement roots me there, and all I can do is appreciate it. Able and unable to move.
So I let go, of all convictions that would otherwise motivate me to seek it out, and I simply enjoy the time I have left. The final broken chord represents the dissipating emotions, and there I lay in a forgetful shroud that blankets me and consumes these memories. I don’t remember many of these songs, and while they don’t resound so clearly and beautifully anymore, the pain of forgetting is always softened by time, ironically. The Eraser of Memories itself.
Inspired by Moon Arpeggio.