Member-only story
The Abyss
A Poem.
What was the Abyss before Nietszche
before Camus, before Sartre and before Beckett
Did it have a name? Where was it hiding?
Silently slumbering in the shadows of the human mind till
the philosophes opened up the vault
within the newly-lit spaces of Enlightenment thought
Birthing in revolutionary blood, a much needed nomenclature for the plight of existence
How perfect. How right. How foreshadowed by the three ancient Greek tragedians.
The Sphinx was fooled by a man who answered a riddle and she was punished with death?
He was the tragic hero?
For man is not the measure of all things. It is the Abyss.
Close your eyes. Look into the void and you will see the truth.
Oedipus did
Of a man and of the truly monstrous.
Can you see? It is you.
It was always you. It was always there. Inside you. And it has your measure. Always.
I mourn for the Sphinx.
She didn’t need to look into the Abyss. Her nature was content and confined
The feminine monstrous needs not the vaulted Abyss to abjure itself
Only the man. Discontented, deserted, desolate, man. Seeking God. And finding only monsters from the Id.
A Forbidden Planet indeed.
