Are the answers right in front of me?
Is there anything at all to see?
I know somebody who may know.
He peers from right behind my eyes…
Twenty years ago, as a high school senior, I wrote a poem about two voices arguing—one bright and seeking, one dark and knowing. I was wrestling with the cultural fascination of that era: Fight Club‘s Tyler Durden whispering truths the narrator couldn’t face, A Beautiful Mind‘s John Nash befriending hallucinations that felt more real than reality. These films and others like it asked the question that haunted me at eighteen: what if the voice in your head telling you you’re crazy is the only sane thing left? What if brilliance and madness are not opposites, but reflections?
I didn’t understand then that I was channeling my own shadow work before I’d ever heard the term. The poem began as psychological dialog, focused on mental health and the link between brilliance and madness. That layer still sits on the surface, but the larger allegory sits beneath it, like muddy water underneath spilt oil.
Which voice is the real one? Who gets to survive?
As I’ve done some inner work myself, following faith deconstruction, the poem has transformed with me, outgrowing the “mental illness as plot twist” trope for something more alchemical: a meditation on ego death, integration, and the void that emerges from the cracks in our sanity, our reality.
For example, with respect to cult or high-demand religious conditioning, an outcome of Religious Trauma Syndrome is the creation of a sort of dissociative identity, where coercive, authoritarian language incentivizes the suppression of the more darkly emotional, questioning, sexual self in favor of the one that captures praise through adherence and conformance. This poem illustrates some measure of the dissociation I felt back then.
Now let’s widen the lens:
Recent events have forced many of us to confront our collective shadow, which hides behind the bright masks society wears to blind us to what we can become—in spite of the cruelty and violence around us). This poem seeks to illustrate that dichotomy at the individual level, but echoes at the collective level.
Often our brighter half is just the mask we wear. The darker half is the shadow we ignore, the one we try to suppress—our past, traumas, attributes, fears, love, anything at all—which trails us. It’s what we wish we never had, until the Great Work occurs. What emerges from entering into a dialog with the shadow is the empty space where transformation becomes possible.
What if nothing comes out of it? Maybe you can’t imagine your life without the mask. Maybe it’s fused with your skin, and it’s too painful to remove, leading you through darker paths and dead ends.
You might seek out death, our tempt it, but death is just another void. So why not consciously jump into the dark and welcome your unbecoming?
It will bore into you, eat you up, but trust you’ll be remade into something more real.
A note on my use of flowery, archaic language throughout: I’ve tempered that compared with earlier versions of this poem somewhat, adding minimalism where it fits the story, but the language aims to embody the way our brighter halves dress up our reality and perception.
Voici le poème:
The Shadow
Are the answers right in front of me? Is there anything at all to see? I know somebody who may know. He peers from right behind my eyes… --- Yes good sir, you wanted me? Want to see what I can see? This I tell you, you should know: You cannot know, you’ll never know! You are not me, Now I must go! --- Oh tell me, pray. I really wish to see What everyday you always see. Stay one minute longer, please. --- You nut! You’re truly blind. The answer’s so simple to find. Look behind! --- I see my shadow, yes. I do. Though, turning back around, The shadow, with its wispy fingers Only stares straight back at me and lingers On the grassless ground. It doesn’t turn With me, the sun stays still, Like a bright and yellow floating urn, While the shadow remains unturned. Why is it so burned? It’s blurred, but I who stand in the sun am not. My mind rots! How does a dark mass Get spawned from such a brilliant Sphere of yellow above this flat, gray grass? --- Fool! I’ve wondered much, How you came to be so—touched. --- I see the shadow. Now, leave me be! It must be you who veils my eyes— I’m so tired of your lies… You must be a devil in disguise! --- Now this, I tell you; I can muse: You’re filled with light, you're tarnished bright! A blinding, slimy white That clouds the lenses of your sight! Dude, you are definitely on the trail, I promise you, you shall not fail In finding the abandoned crypt. (Never has anyone read its writ— hidden in one gray crevice, I’ll not let that slip) Where written is a dusty, crooked line Blasted by the sands of time— Written by the mottled Tendons from a feeble band Of sinew from a decrepit hand. Through contradicting ruminations, Through vaulted language and tilted cadence, Let the questions be your guide Amongst the shadows stretching wide. Does this help? Now, does it? HURRY UP! --- I’ll take my time, you sunny fellow. Your ill-learned manner is a sickly yellow, You’re a cynical fiend who haunts my dream Of somber sleep sans coffee cream Parading through my bloodstream! I can’t help that you, a divining rat Who wears me like its favorite hat— A cap to shower you every hour With one second of gilded power— I can’t help you’re like a phantom Of a long-forgotten kingdom. A flower on a grave, Coaxing some dead knave So strangely to behave! You shower me with power, true, Each time, surely with a glower And though sweet joy keeps bubbling up, You use me like toy. This brief lapse—a curse, no less— Weighs upon me like Sky swallowing a mountaintop, or… oil sheen creeping over a puddle. Thus, your designs for my unrest And drifting gleams, each mental test, Have made this weary soul digress. Thus each golden second, all fifty-nine, Is wasted on your impious rhyme! --- How useless is this all! I’m trying to help you after all. If you don’t want my help…fine. I’ll leave you to your fifty-nine. --- Please don’t leave. Though your temper reeks, I will be meek. Help me with just one sneak-peek; I swear it’s all I need. All I need. --- My funny friend, you are persistent! I know why you’re so insistent. But do you? Here’s a clue: Wrapped in a cloak, a misty fleece Of rarest find, lies a personal piece, A private code that brings no peace. When you read its curious marking, The black ol’ buzzards will come a’ hawking, Skillfully encircling, And their terrible Sweet squawking Will descend upon you, mocking All the ill-earned, squandered Understanding that you’ve Rendered for the taking. --- Your hellish rhymes are dressed as wisdom, But I still can’t see once for myself The things you claim to see. --- Ooh, you’re getting close! You court the silver ghost, The strange familiarity you cleave to— that you need. And I do too. (Here goes) Imbecile! You just pretend to fend me off, And though you weakly send me off, You tend to quaff My florid phrases and cheery faces— Just brittle masks shrouding darker traces. The shadow you remarked Is yet a dying spark In that gray mulch you call a brain, Which waits for one snake-red rain To quench its squishy corner-stain, That still remains completely sane. --- How does that make any sense? Just tell me its significance! --- It trails you, my ignoble friend. I fear…you’ve met your end. --- Ah! A pain from deep within my ear, Though, my friend, I can still hear. Continue, please; enlighten me. --- Very well then, though your left cheek Begins to swell and your upper lip’s a—milky green? You’re enshrouded. Your rent mind is clearly clouded— Oh no, Your left eye is a filmy white, Dear friend, have you your sight? May I continue shedding light? Your right eye—shines bloody red! I recommend retiring to bed. --- I can see, still. Could your words be right? They are blight! Again, whenever I rest my head, I smell a scrumptious, juicy dread— Whooshing whispers Echoing in leaden dreams Of sleep upon my bulging bed. No more coffee! No more cream! Go on, go on, before I scream! --- Ha ha ha ha! You are the type, Who dives below the very water That will be your sightly slaughter. A great white whale has risen up To swallow they who delve the deep, who rise from sleep to hear my rhyme! (I should probably say it now): I am he who cannot sleep. You’re the dream within my Keep, The home where sober thought Collapses to insanity. You’re the sun, the floating urn. You spawned me here. I cannot turn, So quiet night became my lure, And now, I hope to be secure From you, dear friend One second was ever a fleeting cure. --- Oh, so I’m the nut? I will outwit Your nonsense ramblings For one sound second, maybe more… Enough— The foul fowl have been sent, Here they come now. How they swoop! What’s this, a mirror right across from me? Just what is it that I’ve failed to see? … Ah! What mosaic melt of sloughing skin! The truth emerges now, I think! Do you feel pain, my clever friend? Between us, is there any link? Are we both shadows of some wilting wraith, Who bound us fast in capricious haste? My face is—erased? feels bone-eye worn— Sunken, torn, and many a wriggling weevil begins to— hollowing my rotting vessel… Can I rest now? --- Yes. Rest. No pain here. For now, I’m still alive. By this, my plan, the glyphs Succeeded, after all. You’ve dwindled in a dying fall, a pitiful, desperate crawl Through a fiery red and clotted hall. And now I’m free, From that splendid inconsistency— The brighter half of me.
