Life without the Razor

We all have a familiar hole to call sanctuary, fond memories to warmly rub our cold hands over as the encroaching darkness adds a chill to its approaching front in the face of new experiences that add an uneasy air of anxiety to the mix. Emotional blankets are the well-known, tried and tested to which longing hands reach for a tangible touch of what fails to betray or cheat us, whether this is a person, thing or coldly factual realisation it matters not but just that we have it.

The positive attuned have the shield of radiating merriness to light that dark encroach, the battle ready fighter possessing a sword to battle onto unknown shores with as much aggressive logic as that dark front can assemble to match, as the thinker applies knowledge as a torch to turn dark corners of uncertainty to clarity of fact. The negative attuned are to the rest pessimistic and bleakly minded in their droll sense of humour as dry as the glass of an AA member in a bar, no such glory to be seen in the over cast misery weighing down every laboured act into the unknown.

Depression is seen in common lure as a betrayal of human nature, an epithet of all that darkly seduces sufferers into self destructive acts as all the positivity hued paths offer so much rewarding more, for those upon enlightened paths have many branches of trust to perch on within that glorified tree of branching luck. From the perspective below a differing ally has an outreached hand in uncertain times to warm the flow of blackened blood, where once a fall from grace was laced with ill luck and failing chances a severe mistrust has grown in thorny fashion around that once bright bark.

So where in the terrible turn of events, storm fronts of anxiety hailing change to shake the very much developed bond with hatred soaked spite at all they lost, does the seemingly cursed turn to support those first few stammered steps? To the undertaker clad figure whom offers both a razor and corrupted torch…

The razor’s softly touch promises an escape if all sours in attempted efforts to advance and so the poorly reputable friend claims their prize as promised should that fated fall occur, the torch to burn the unwanted and shine light in jaded wavelength to see all that hopeful haze would obstruct. And in an age of years followed by that poorly reputable friend our perspective is so awfully eschewed, life without the razor is not a future commonly considered when the question dawns ‘What next?’

Those on this trail of, to outside eye, despairing fates entwined with coldness and mistrusting eyes that find their way to the woods less thick with grief and blessed by streams of illuminating sun lit light, will never so easily forget or frivolously reject the power they know lay in that blade once hailed so gifted by a friend and companion alike. And look in their back pocket, I bet that although stiff and slightly rusted a razor you will find with letters from an old friend should that enlightened path ever turn on a misstep to places of much less positively corrupted mind.

“Life without the razor to a depressive is as scary as life with that hallowed reaper of a blade to those positively blessed”

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