Neverland

image courtesy of thehauntedlullaby.com.jpg

It’s not really a door in a tree or a passage through a grandfather clock, or even a wardrobe. We think of fairy dust and magic rings, an afternoon that somehow tumbles on and on, and we long for the tingling feeling which whispers that we are experiencing the impossible, hardly daring to hope even then that we are on our way somewhere else, somewhere enchanted.

Most of all, we imagine that this tingle is a thrill. We would never believe that it is a horror. The elevator that plunges to the ground, trailing its severed cords above, provides a very different sensation. As we plummet, we long for impact. In our desire to live, we delay death as much as possible, yet when it is imminent, the wait becomes unbearable: the shaft will soon run out and the box will meet its cradle, but worst of all is that we do not know when. We unconsciously count the seconds, number the floors that must be rushing past. We cringe, and we wait, and we covet the end. Those seconds of anticipation are no longer precious to us. We have abandoned, in that moment, our desire for life, and the embrace of death appears as a relief. Those seconds, when stretched, are tortuous. They are not counted among the moments we spend living but instead are added to those we spend dying. And as the elevator reaches its fifteenth second in free fall, its twentieth, its thirtieth, there is not even then the room for hope. We find only the agony of the wait, the impatience for the crash, and as the climbing of those seconds continues long past the impossible plateau, there is nothing of whimsy or mystery in the air.

If only we knew that the door to another world is one that we would never willingly open, perhaps then we would realize why so few of us ever leave this plane. The journey is not through an enchanted forest, and there are no beckoning merfolk or sun-dappled paths along the way. There is only fear, mounting exponentially: the excruciating final moments of drowning that refuse yield, the terror of endless final gasps of air when buried in a landslide, the frenzied hurtling down a bottomless elevator shaft when all that we desire is simply to no longer be so that the nightmare will finally end.

That’s when the magic happens.

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About anotherexilefromparadise

I am a writer, by passion if not by profession.
This entry was posted in Fiction, Story, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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