‘The Avoidance Of The Black Room…’

I’m here again.
Here in this room, the first room, or the other 5.
Away from the outside world, on the contrary, or am I out here while trapped inside?
This room, that room, this cell, or that hell.
How do we know we aren’t in heaven, or, in a sense, by choosing our own tumultuous endeavors for pleasure? In a hell, we created ourselves, bewildered as well as despondent. Lost sight of heaven, in this instance, for something corespondent.
The eerie silence in the air, along with the eerie subtleness of the night. Oh, how it speaks volumes within itself. Meanwhile, the silence speaks one word, the chilling ironic phrase; ALONE.
Home is ultimately my ultimate desire, yet my urning for it clouds my ultimate craving within myself. What I desire, similarly yet oppositely, is peace.
I find myself endlessly running like a hamster on his wheel, thinking I’ve run so far, yet I’m stuck in one place. Urning for peace.
Doing what I want to do instead of doing what I need. I’ve reached the space called purgatory. Oh how paradoxical of me.
Luke warm, if you please. Realizing, no matter how much I’ve tried. I've reached a crossroads in my life.
Should I go left, or shall I go right?
I know the answer, but yet I chose to run and hide.
Realizing once more, I’m on the hamster wheel of life, afresh the realizations, not overcoming what’s stuck inside.
Everyday conscious awareness that I try to subside.
I’m going nowhere.
However, my mind is constantly in motion, like a swinging pendulum that’s never seemed to be positioned.
Constant motion, which never met an equal or opposite reaction, is perpetual motion, to which I must attest.
A test of time that seems to last forever. Yet nothing lasts forever. So why am I acting like forever is never going to come? Like death isn’t imminent, understandably, the promise means that the only promise given in life is death.
Living like tomorrow is always promised, yet I am doing and proving today that I want it to end.
The ride of a lifetime no man can solemnly create; no matter how many times it plays in his mind, it’s stuck on replay. Getting played again and again.
A scratched CD, the original ones, not Blue-Ray.
The past keeps coming up and staying frozen. Inasmuch as, due to the scars on the surface, the internal inscription can’t seem to carry on.
So it keeps buffering and buffering, no matter how hard you try to clean it. It seems to never work, no matter how much time and effort you put in to try to achieve it. You look up the tips and tricks, yet nothing seems to work, so you just throw it in its case and leave it. Henceforth, collect dust until you think about it and remember that it’s damaged. No matter how much joy you got from the time you remember that it gave you, it’s fucked.
Yet why don’t you just toss it away and remember that you can obtain another one?
Forget what you paid at the time and realize how you’ve learned to take care of it now; it’s cheaper than before.
All this rambling. All these similes. All these metaphors bring me back to the crux of the problem.
‘Avoidance of the Black Room’, ahh, yes, yes, how shroud. The black room, the room of death, is the 7th room I’ve left out other than the other 6. The realization of one’s own damnation, henceforth, the one who’s survived what’s been prevailed. He was the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Weighed down in the water, he swam up for air while chain-linked to enormous boulders. Will the strength with which he’s survived be enough to keep him going? All the while, the realization of knowing he holds the key to setting himself free. How ironic the quarrel within himself is. How dastardly it must be.
As he embarks on more journeys ahead, side-quest upon side-quest, he wears the mask as he travels throughout the six rooms of the Masquerade Ball. As the one he is to come to, the stranger lingers within himself; the bloody robe bewilders him and keeps him in awe. Shall he be curious and follow the masked man who does not fear the 7th room? Then again, shall he stay locked away in his abbey, remaining frustrated and distracted by his ongoing lifestyle and partygoers within his welded-closed abyss? Reluctantly, yet knowingly, following the bloody robed openess into reality, into the black room. Unveiling himself to the Red Death to kill what he’s been needing to let die, to free him from his abbey. To start over anew, as is to be reborn in spirit in addition to flesh.
Henceforth, his new playwright is written as he performs his new role in ‘The Masque of the Red Death’.