Every day, I wake up early and look west, waiting for the sun to rise. I try to ignore the light coming from my back, the glow around my shadow cast, until it is undeniable and I am forced to confront the searing truth behind me. I am heartbroken each time, but I haven’t given up hope. One day, the sun will rise from the west.
I am well aware this is unreasonable. Any old idiot could tell you the sun rises to the east. A smart one could tell you why. Nobody can say why I have not given up this hope yet. I would be happy to take this hope to my coffin, but I can only bear so much heartbreak.
An exorcism is a cleansing of spirits, the banishment of the supernatural from a human body, from a mind. An exorcism is the brutal, inevitable triumph of reality over fragile fiction made manifest. An exorcism is bringing things into tune. An exorcism is opening the door and letting the cold wind in to destroy. An exorcism is straightening a bent nail.
An exorcism is refinement of the self. I close my eyes, straighten my back, take a deep breath. I behold myself, tangled and knotted, a figure of strands and complexity. Somewhere in there is the bastard hope that will be put down.
An exorcism is enforcing what is and what is not. I step back, expand my scope. There is a vast chasm bolted through by scant thin tendrils, the tenuous threads that connect to what is. I follow their path, on and on, until I find the surface. The tendrils peek through, sample, collect a report to be processed, reviewed by committee, and disseminated. This procedure will be more medieval than that.
An exorcism is chemotherapy. This door is not meant to be opened, so it does not exist, so I will make it. I take my heartbreak, all of it, that sinking feeling as I realize that the bastard hope has betrayed me once more, like clockwork. I take the pain that refuses to be dull, refuses to settle. I take everything that the bastard hope has given to me, and I javelin it at the barrier. It tears through, and in comes the outside.
An exorcism is the horror of mundanity. The outside does not bolt in. It, too, has tendrils, crimson red and lapiz lazuli blue, that explore and creep and work their way, methodically, back towards the self. They are malicious, painted with ill intent. I accept them. They find the self, and I release my breath.
An exorcism is an early death. They spiderweb through the self, not constricting, but limiting. Any beautiful thing that brushes too close with reality will be destroyed by it. Nothing can survive an event horizon. As I am changed, I feel sad, I feel loss, I know that I cannot go back, and there is regret. They find their target. Reality always does. It is over too quickly. The bastard hope should’ve put up a fight. The bastard hope couldn’t have put up a fight. Why couldn’t it have put up a fight?
An exorcism is tranquility. The tendrils of malice cannot leave. They are now part of me. Now, I sense more keenly than others, though I would rather not discuss the cost. At least I am better now. At least my mornings do not break my heart. At least I can be a little bit of a corpse.
An exorcism is giving up.