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The Wall

     Suddenly everything seemed a little simpler.  Neurosis was a matter of, paradoxically, over-analyzation and lack of true attention.  It was so much easier to hold up the sign that said "Truth" than it was to be melancholy about some lost abstraction, now dissipating in the vagaries of times swirling mists.
     Some voice mentioned that this might be a temporary lull, a transitory happiness.  The result is merely laughter, for the voice of the saboteur is both right and wrong.  Even the bittersweet knowledge of the constant changing and morphing of all things is tempered by a certain peace that comes from being able to see the right and wrong converse with eachother coherently.  Their dialogue is colorful in its stark black and white.  They exchange points of view as two fencers might, the tips of the foils hardly nicking flesh as they strike home.  This is an exercise of faith, one that does not injure yet impresses the soul deeply.
     In some other compartment of consciousness, the mirror spins as the black robed mage wages a lethal battle.  No matter who "wins" the fight, he will still be there, staring down those glowing orbs of fire.  Maybe at the end of this battle he will no longer stare, but stand quietly, and soon he too may disappear.

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