Nightmares

And what of the shadow ...

invisible in the absence of a window
or door to let in a quantum of light.
There are no bars,
no cold, stone, impenetrable walls.
They're merely poetic metaphors.

What terror in the mind of a child locked up the pristine unitary ego so utterly that the rescue note bobbed up only at the full half-life of human decay? An infant can bear most things if not abandoned. 

But for the not so lucky, for survival? The projection of external demons into nightmares and the Marvel world - the summoning of gods and heroes, Holmes and Moriarty, Arthur and Mordred, Michael and Diabolus - distractions, avoidances. But also signposts to the task that the Golden Child awaits - the grail quest of a Galahad to release the binding fascia memory of the lost years.

In the half light of the city streets, the rage of the beast is ale-numbed, though sometimes the grief breaks through. For another night the child must wait. But didn't someone say tomorrow is another day? I have to disagree, Scarlett. There is no time. Only now.

So, some work done. I have held the hand of the child to face the beast, to bring it home, to own it, love it. But when again moments long ago leak through Psyche's floorboards into consciousness, I will let slip the moorings of my little ship. What does it matter, the terrible infinity of the ocean when my sail is filled with with winds of love.