Discordant Waltz

An empty cathedral. No seats, bare walls, an exhale deafeningly echoing on the stone.

What is this place?

The world begins to spin and then I know, but I do not remember it’s name.

A cacophony of heels clicking on the stone floors. I am whirled around by one who seeks to be the lord of my mind, and the movements are abrupt, unnatural.

Shifting, sliding, pulling, pushing.

The gray, stained glass windows are little more than a blur, my eyes cannot focus on them. At the front of the doorless cathedral is another image, a figure hanging on the wall, but I cannot make it clear, I cannot see more than a flicker of light.

Step. Step. Whirl, Twist, Spin, Step, Trip, Fall, Pull Push Shove Wrestle Relent.

Step. Step. Whirl, Twist, Spin, Step, Trip, Fall, Pull Push Shove Wrestle Relent.

Step. Step. Whirl, Twist, Spin…

…it does not end. The imperfect dance, the discordant waltz, turned into a fight for control that I am forced to endure and forced to continue, but I am slowly beginning to admit defeat. Each of my rebellions is becoming weaker, my shoves are losing power, my fists are weakening, my fighting spirit is dwindling all to nothing and I am falling down a spiral and I cannot escape the fall as I am spinning, spinning, spinning,


What is this place?

I am disoriented. I am not sure where I am, who I am. But then, I see the walls and again begin to remember.

Each window depicts a scene in monotone glass:

Solitary meals. Tear-stained pillows. Unsent messages crying for help.

Moments of rage, moments of feigned peace.

Artificial solitude and artificial companionship.

In each image there is a lone figure and no other.

What is this place?

Now I remember where I am and what this place is called. I am in the mind that I thought I had lost.

Before my dance partner’s intrusion, I had known this place. I had trusted it, I was safe here. But now, I am a foreigner and I am afraid.

The memory of the figure at the front of the room flashes into my thoughts. I cautiously turn, feet echoing on the gray, stone floors of my gray, stone cathedral to look at the gray, stone walls surrounded by the gray, stained windows of a gray, stoic life.

I cannot look directly at the figure. It hurts as though it is too real, but I long to gaze upon it.

As my eyes flicker closer and closer, emotions toy with me like my dance partner.

I hate the figure, I love the figure.

It enrages me, it pains me.

I am dancing in the periphery of truth, my proximity hurting more than the distance that I used to know.

Suddenly I see it fully and cannot look away. The figure hanging there with eyes of compassion, wrinkled with sorrow, shoulders slumped with the weight of true glory, and I am astounded.

I clatter to my knees and fall as adoration streams into my cold cathedral with rays of warm light. My gaze flickers to my windows and though the scenes had not changed, they looked different. In vibrant color, they remained painful but that pain was eclipsed by something more.

I think I will call it love.

Other Extended Metaphors:

The Mind as a Garden

The Weary Traveler

Other pieces on Depression:

On Pain and Loving God/Unexpectedly, nonetheless

A Silent Voice


Sunset and Storm


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