Do not love💞Half Lovers
A rise from madness to actualization 💕
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. Yet to my fractured and tormented mind, it was as real as the volcanic seething, burning blood which was hotly pumping through my veins. I could feel the fire melting my insides and singeing the vitreous fluid behind my eyelids. As my eyeballs rolled slowly down my cheeks, blood mixed with the vitreous humor and tears. I clawed at my face, moaning and whining like a frightened inconsolable child. Thankfully, sweet relief overcame me, as I fell to the floor in a stupor.
I awaken to an extremely large man standing above me, slapping my face. Urgently, I spring up and away from the intruder, yanking at myself all over, searching for the fires of hell which previously had burned and scorched my soul. Had it been purely an hallucination within my mind? Being now disambiguated of that idea, the illusion that I had burned was forgotten. I now had a new vision of a man long dead, towering and tall, peering down at me.
"Who are you"? I ask, though already knowing the improbable truth.
"You know who I am". He replied.
Kahlil Gibran, my favorite poet, many years gone, dead, had walked out of a mirror while I was slowly descending into one of my delusions of madness.
"Do you remember this poem, my friend Lythera"? Lythera? What manner of name is that. My name is Marko. I live in Brooklyn NY. He started reciting the curious abstract and philosophical poem. It resonated to me down through a distant era much like an echo.
Do not love half lovers
Do not entertain half friends
Do not indulge in works of the half talented
Do not live half a life and do not die a half death
He paused a while.
"I was sent here by Althur. In another lifetime, you two were lovers. What you are now imagining as madness, are your memories of a long ago past love which still burns through the many centuries present".
It was too much for my tortured soul to bear. I needed help. I was again slipping down that awful spiraling staircase, and falling, falling so fast and so far, that my hands, of their own volition, reached up, ripping my hair from their very roots.
"Help, help"! I screamed, rushing to the door of my cell and banging on the door with all my strength and might.
For I was locked up in a tiny white room with no windows, no furniture, and with total certainty, without doubt, not a single mirror. I was prone to the hurting of myself with whatever physical instrument which my hands would find to avail themselves.
The tiny peek window to my room slid back. Two fiery angry eyes appeared and the devil shouted at me.
"Be quiet in there Marko. Don't make me put you in a straitjacket again"!
"He is here, over there, do you not see him, He came from the mirror"? I shouted back.
"I see no one. What mirror? Shut the hell up and go take a nap". The devil said, closing the window with great force.
Another voice opened the window again. "Marko honey, do you need some pills to calm you down"? It was the nice devil, I like her.
"N..no, no, no. I don't". I hate the pills, they make me drool and spit.
"Ok hon. Try to be quiet, lunch is in a little bit". The window closed.
My tormentor resumed reciting in a quiet voice, as if the previous furore had not just ensued.
If you choose silence, then be silent
When you speak, do so until you are finished
Do not silence yourself to say something
And do not speak to be silent
The poet sat on the floor and invited me to sit with him. Taking my two hands in his, we sat cross-legged on the floor.
The mirror shifted to bloody hands reaching down, creeping slower and slower down towards me.
I screamed and screamed. No words actually emanated from my throat, the fear in me negated every sound and rendered my larynx incapable of motion. My body was petrified.
"Do not be scared, Lythera. It is not blood, but the lights of painted thoughts which you see. Althur is an artist. His yearning now emanates across time, reaching in desperation for you. Come, I will Take you to him". I did not, could not move. I had lost whatever iota of claim which was at all rational and lucid to my sanity .
He continued reciting poetry. To calm my spirit the ghost spoke soothingly. For would anything but a ghost be able to step so calmly from a previously non-existent mirror.
If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it
If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal
is but a weak acceptance
Save me! I plead to the universe. For I no longer believe myself sane. Those fools who put me here had not been able to convince me of such a thing before. My family had not had patience with me. My whole life I had visions of being someone living in someone else's body. I called it clairvoyance and a bit of the impatience and lack of understanding of a world who saw madness in everything that they did not understand.
Now I am beginning to lose faith in myself.
Do not accept half a solution
Do not believe half truths
Do not dream half a dream
Do not fantasize about half hopes
We began rising from the floor, up, up to the cursed mirror. I was paralyzed with fear. Even if I wanted to try for escape, I could not move my body. More soothing words of poetry followed my slow descent into mirrored madness.
Half a drink will not quench your thirst
Half a meal will not satiate your hunger
Half the way will get you nowhere
Half an idea will bear you no results
Through the impossible mirror we flew like wingless birds on an impossible journey. My mind was now blank. I had given up thought and sanity and just allowed the magic of the waking dream to transport me to the land of transcendental nothingness. I allowed the beautiful depth of the words of poetry to lull me to a place where sanity and peace reigned, and would somehow presage not madness, but wholesomeness and restful sleep.
We emerged into a beautiful garden. A raised Japanese style bridge led to a lovely tree shaded walkway overhung with a blanket of leaves. Clear water cascaded to the depths below, watering the great proliferation of budding flowers and plants which were lazily and happily sunning themselves in the great splendor of the daylight hours.
"Come". The poet said, breaking the turbulent and bewildering maddened silence. He pointed towards the bridge and we started walking.
Birds began singing.
As we started across the bridge, he finished the many faceted, deeply poignant, moving and heartfelt verses of poetry.
Your other half is not the one you love
It is you in another time yet in the same space
It is you when you are not
Half a life is a life you didn't live,
A word you have not said
A smile you postponed
A love you have not had
A friendship you did not know
To reach and not arrive
Work and not work
Attend only to be absent
What makes you a stranger to them closest to you
and they strangers to you
The half is a mere moment of inability
but you are able for you are not half a being
You are a whole that exists
to live a life not half a life
As he finished orating, a veil was lifted from my eyes. My brain refocused, and the fog that once clouded my every waking moment evaporated into nothingness. The disparity of my dual existence departed my body in motions not unlike steam gushing from an erupting rabid volcano.
Althur, hearing us approaching, ran out to meet us, arms outstretched. We embraced, the stranger and I. We were strangers no more. Our lives had aligned in that one moment.
I was home.
As we entered the art studio of Althur of Northandy in the year 1901, I became a new man. I remembered my old life. Here was the madness that I had dreamt of as my truth. It is now my sanity in truth and life hereafter.
Back in the Arcadium Insane Asylum, nestled deep in the far reaches of Brooklyn NY, the guards entered the little room with Marko's lunch in tow. They always went in pairs, one to protect, the other to administer to his needs.
They found not a single soul.
The room was completely empty. Dumbfounded, and afraid of losing their jobs, they blew their whistles rather loud and shrilly, hurriedly conducting a thorough search.
No trace of the patient '1478, in Room 57D, Block A' was ever found.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.
Do Not Love Half Lovers
By Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)
Do not love half lovers
Do not entertain half friends
Do not indulge in works of the half talented
Do not live half a life and do not die a half death
If you choose silence, then be silent
When you speak, do so until you are finished
Do not silence yourself to say something
And do not speak to be silent
If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it
If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal
is but a weak acceptance
Do not accept half a solution
Do not believe half truths
Do not dream half a dream
Do not fantasize about half hopes
Half a drink will not quench your thirst
Half a meal will not satiate your hunger
Half the way will get you nowhere
Half an idea will bear you no results
Your other half is not the one you love
It is you in another time yet in the same space
It is you when you are not
Half a life is a life you didn't live,
A word you have not said
A smile you postponed
A love you have not had
A friendship you did not know
To reach and not arrive
Work and not work
Attend only to be absent
What makes you a stranger to them closest to you
and they strangers to you
The half is a mere moment of inability
but you are able for you are not half a being
You are a whole that exists
to live a life not half a life
............................................................................................................
Thank you for reading.
About the Creator
Novel Allen
You can only become truly accomplished at something you love. (Maya Angelou). Genuine accomplishment is not about financial gain, but about dedicating oneself to activities that bring joy and fulfillment.
Keep reading
More stories from Novel Allen and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Child of the Blood Moon
There is a tale told by the elders of Dark world, that when the moon shall wax the color of blood, a human child would be born at midnight in Aos sÃ, the land of the Amethyst Fairies. On that night, when the clock struck twelve, the whole world shall tremble. For the birth of the child would rip a void in the fabric of time. So powerful would be that void, evil would be propelled into the human realm, and terror would reign for sixteen years.
By Novel Allen3 years ago in Fiction
Miss Persephone's Manual to a Seemingly Ordinary Life
Miss Persephone was found at the dining table, her blue eyes swollen, her tears arriving and retreating like the tides of the ocean. Earlier that day, her family had visited her in the retirement home where she had lived for eight years. It was her eightieth birthday.
By Imola Tóth7 days ago in Fiction
Center Stage with Paul Stewart
*** I'm keen to republish the interviews I did for my series with Vocal creators. It's been a few years and I thought it might be nice to revisit these wonderful conversations. I'll be releasing them one at a time for a few weeks/months.
By Heather Hubler7 days ago in Interview
Comments (2)
Hey, My elder sister used to read them to me, and as I grew up, my love for stories only got stronger. I started with books, and now I enjoy reading on different writing platforms. Today, I came here just to read some stories, and that’s when I found your writing. From the very first lines, it caught my attention the more I read, the more I fell in love with your words. So I just had to appreciate you for this beautiful work. I’m really excited to hear your reply!
informative and well-written