Dragons Precede the Sunrise

In the most honest way I can state this, I find that it is utterly selfish for the self to be seeking attention through its most potent poison: depression and self-degradation. The almost automatic addiction and acceptance of this is truly bewildering, discriminating no one at any given point in time. Why do we befriend this self-destructive entity when all it is purposed to do is gnaw at you from the inside, utterly untraceable until only before your demise?

At what point do we make ourselves vulnerable and open to this monster? Willingly, even, at the most desperate of times. It is evil at how depression shrouds itself as a friend, coming to us when we’ve reached a dead end of a friendship, an achievement, a relationship, or even an idea. When we are singled out and poked with a cattle prod labeled “useless” or “failure,” no sooner than the searing brand has settled into your skin does this darkness loom over you. Terrifying, isn’t it? So why do we welcome it with open arms? We are obviously looking in the wrong nooks and crannies of life. Might as well have befriended a garbage bin if you wanted nothing but dying, useless, and rejected company. We hunger for attention so we ingest bombs called depression and scream for people to save us. It is but the wrong way to find your worth.

I’d like to make it clear that I don’t believe that asking for attention is distasteful or unacceptable, but obviously under the right parameters and conditions, without blowing it over and having it throw you off as a narcissist or any of the sort. Everyone needs a chin up every now and then, a little sunshine to boost their morale, and more importantly their purpose in life.

But puppeteering whilst being the puppet yourself complicates things, doesn’t it? To try and save your own bleeding soul is a procedure deemed inevitable for death.  To dictate recovery by donning a mask is not recovery at all. The acknowledgment of your demons and realizing that they provide you no respite at all is the beginning of recovery; to realize that your worth should not and cannot be dampened by a stinging word. Although it should hurt, it also should awaken us to better ourselves. Confronting the behemoths of your struggle is nothing but intimidating, moreover difficult to slay in the first encounter. But where I’ve learned to mellow it down and sugarcoat it, I’ve only let it soak and thrive. It is an unwavering decision to strike them down and collapse them from memory, from the heart, from the mind. The trauma that it brings whenever triggered is like a paralyzing surge, and it makes you writhe in pain – figuratively or literally it may be.

I cannot confidently say that I’ve come face-to-face with these dragons of mine, for I’ve yet to discover how to tame them and rid myself of them. They claw and they bite, and they remain, digging into your unaware self. To quote the poet Rilke, “perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.” This excerpt from a strikingly powerful poem on fear is but a testament to the misconceptions we have of things, our fears and desires included. To begin with, you never should have played with fire – in this case, spiral down an abyss of internal darkness and isolation. You would do well to accept that your place in the world may be just a thread in the tapestry – meaning it does revolve around you, but at the same time the world would not do well with a cog out of place. We choose, oftentimes, the most dangerous of “solutions” with the least possibility of success. In other words, we dive into an empty pool, because we believe the attention we gain will be enough to save us. I have, truthfully acknowledged the negativity the chains that keep me down, mostly rooted from my own pessimism and paranoia. I am my own dragon, I have realized. Time and again I have clawed at my own self, berating and degrading myself for opting for idiotic and selfish choices, but I realize that it is not like “as diamond can only scratch diamond,” for a  dragon is impenetrable from itself;fire cannot kill fire. Rilke beautifully presents a solution so unbelievably simple, again quoting from the same poem, aptly titled “Fear of the Inexplicable”:

We have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. Has it terrors, they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abuses belong to us; are dangers at hand, we must try to love them.” 

Anyone desperate enough to find a solution does not question the impossible simplicity of suggestions. I am only addled as to why I cannot at this moment choose this. Yet I badly want to let go of the dragons, no question in that. I fear that it overtakes my sensibility at certain times, rendering me helpless and subdued, but the miracle of regaining consciousness and the upper hand is but a welcome spectacle, and it gives me hope. I only wish not to prolong the agony any longer, lest it consume me wholly. For who would be able to fight the good fight if only the willing and the enduring? Hope is not a distant thought nor is it a fabled ideal. It is a concrete platform upon which you have access to anytime, at your beckoning. You only need to see yourself holding up hope up your own face first, and firmly believe that you will see a freed soul, and not a self-destructing dragon.



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