The Fall of House Nix

How comfortable have I become with the unsound reality that I can compose tomes upon tomes of words and still, inevitably at the end of the writing have said nothing of importance? It is in the later seasons of my mental strife in which I’ve discovered that I can fashion syllables like a devil and still ultimately have nothing of value to add to the world around me. To have a mind so full of word and rhyme and to still be so without pertinence is astounding. Yet, it has become the method by which I have exorcised each demon which has happened upon my view.

I am unfit for the throne which I seek, and have taken the mantle to write complexly, in utterance at the chance to prove to myself that I am not, after all, the bumbling mockery of an upright man which I see in the mirror before me. I have held account of seasons and the messages by which they have sent me. To be one in awe at the wreckage I have created within mine own heart as the spring flowers blossomed. To be covered in the blood soaked fury that echoed inside of hollow belfry’s and abandoned towers strewn across a barren landscape I had not previously considered my own. Here, in the fall with no name, the season of nothingness I insist upon writing to ease my gentle malaise, lest it evolve and become a tidal wave of unstoppable scrutiny to my own spirit.

It is upon this season of vacancy in which I find myself longing to return to the ways which previously bore me unto dangerous shores and untamed wildlife. It is here in the wreckage of a house that lived within my memory I find myself exposed to the elements. It became a feeling as much the same as the weathered tiles and warped floorboards had been when I first chose to abandon this haunted vessel at the turning of the winter when fears I’d watered inevitably bloomed into haunts of sinister import. With this still, sorrowful utterance I am undone by the very thing I believed to be my retribution; myself.

In the time since we’ve last spoken I wish I could come to tell you about the new ways in which I’ve seen the world, for grand beauty and opalescent dreams of vistas painted by the hands of craftsmen leagues outside of my own in terms of skill and willful duty.

Instead, I have returned to the childhood home taken roost within my spirit to the haunting melody of church bells, abandoned and estranged from their consecrated grounds. In that I mean, what was once sacred to me is sacred no longer. Though this journey is no matter of salvation or eternal placement alongside any sort of throne, as I am not uncertain regarding the nature of my soul. This journey has turned what other sacred rituals once practiced into something diabolical in nature, to say instead that I have begun to feel unsainted in regard to the passion with which I hold.

When I last wrote regarding the affairs of this estate, I wrote of a home built of hobbled pieces of memory which I had rather unsuccessfully plastered together in a jealous or vain motion with the intention of lapping up the scrutiny of my peers for safekeeping that I might leave a token of remembrance when the flame that burns from every angle inevitably goes out.

If it were not for the storm, I do believe the candle would still be lapping at the air and I might be nothing more than a ball of flame, waiting to be reduced to ashes in the gardens of those memories, and personhood, I built myself upon. What instead has come of the aftermath is much the same in practice and yet in theory has felt entirely unremarkable.

My spirit has become like the tide. It grows high and powerful and when I am there, I see the candle I had once hung upon my mantle and burned from every angle, now reduced to a haughty ornament of dashed wax and smoldering wick. At the peak of this investiture into myself I find the moon so near. It endears me to the reflection of the light which I admired from within the confines of a ruddy home for centuries. Then, with all the weight of the world upon me I collide with the shore and pull away.

When my spirit gets low in such times, it is impossible for me to recall the things which have indefensibly until this season, made me who I am. I describe it to myself when I have no one else to talk to as feeling like a ghost. A spirit who haunts a body who can’t remember what he might have been in a life before this one.

In many ways, I suspect this is what the long death of stagnation might bring. The most hated enemy of my mind, being stale of heart, draws me into a seductive rapture as I stare unblinking at the text before me and fail to find the words or the writing by which I need in order to survive.

I am certain, that the world is crashing down around me when I am low, like I am now, and the most dreadful part of it all is that I don’t know which version of myself to believe. Anymore it has become a constant battle of wits between the spirit that haunts the marshes and the scrublands, searching for a fragment of a blossoming hope and betraying his sense of self worth versus the lark whose sole purpose is to climb higher and higher until it can one day, it hopes, speak face to face with the moon.

My most recent endeavor to rebuild what I might have held dear in the face of catastrophe has taught me something of value, however. I have learned that birds and spirits are not so different.

We must both be fed by our guardian, on one hand our mothers and fathers, our friends and companions, our mentors and our teachers. Until we are of ripe enough age to be sent from the nest and off to succumb to our self appointed duty. Spirits, I have come to know, are much the same. Where we do not have guardians or mentors per se, we instead are faced with a maddening cacophony of subtle reminders who we might have been, or what is worse, who we might yet become. We feed on those memories just the same until we are of age to break away from the desecration in which we employ ourselves and seek more fertile, succulent traumas.

In this place, caught between the wings of a lark and the shackles of a spirit I have found myself. The ebb and flow of daily incursions into my life have forced me to be as a pendulum with a blade, ever threatening the last frail, frayed rope which binds my sanity and safety to me like a helium balloon awaiting its freedom.

I suspect I am not alone in this feeling, though it might not be simply stated for many.

You see, I have prided myself for ages on the thrill of being able to overcome any slight grievance with the wave of a hand. Other, more serious disasters threatened to end my charade, but were ultimately unsuccessful. When the time came and I was forced to hold myself accountable for self destructive habits and selfish purpose, the charade was burned away as quickly as the candle which warmed my nightly endeavors for personal fulfillment, and emotional satisfaction.

It is suffice to say, I had not given myself a complex enough problem to merit a thoughtful solution to my state of being. I trapped myself between independent expectation and personal duty and in matters involving the two, rarely are both satisfied.

My mind works in pieces, floating betwixt the ideals I once harbored closely to my heart. Cysts and Polyps of spectacle, drenching what was otherwise a lackluster existence. Since then I have discovered, where my disease ridden body might have perished upon the tide, In death I float. This new life which came for me after the turning of the dawn  was altogether more than I had bargained for and to have my greatest dreamed turned inside out upon the altar of my spirit, I find, I am not the least bit concerned with the staging of any home I once inhabited, welcome or otherwise.

I have become all too alike the haunts which have tormented my waking and sleeping mind since I dreamed as profoundly as a child, and the nonsense which fills my mind this day is no more unintelligible than when I was young and still dreamed, as though I were still filled with hope and light and laughter.

Perhaps it is that I, too, am indefensible in the grand scheme of things. That my life is not a glass house, nor is it the fortified castle upon which I believed I had rested my foundation. In the wake of the storm, I have died, been crumbled beneath the grandeur of reality, and despite my ethereal return, I have returned all the same.

To cut through the madness of my broken tongue, it is an empty house which I have kept since my youth. Filled not with memory as I wished for it to be, but with obligation. Duty, to myself and those I loved, to be full for them at all times. To lash myself with the strap of their burden or possibility, so that their load may be made light. It was a duty which brought me fulfillment beyond my own understanding. To have cut the cord upon my self appointed duty has changed me, permanently, for perhaps the better. 

After all, in death I have been able to give myself a new lease on the life which I’ve always wanted.

Welcome to Mean for the Holidays 2022!

This is the first of many pieces of writing released over the course of the next thirteen days, if you want to know more — go follow me on Facebook and Instagram!

For more writing, maybe give [SoW] Prologue, Part One: Emry of the River a try!

3 Replies to “The Fall of House Nix”

  1. […] The Fall of House Nix […]


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