Betrayal always slithers noiselessly like a slug coating the poison of its slime into a relationship, without warning: the viscid unrelenting gel permeates deep into the recesses of the subconscious. There it cakes morbidly unwashable. When you trace the trajectory of betrayal through time you find each preceding event frozen in tandem, into vignettes of daggers carefully planned. Even simple words like "very good" can be ominously portentous. This comes with the rending foreknowledge that no remedy will come, not in days, nor months, nor years. There will be questions but no answers. There will be comprehension but no prayers. There may be grief but no tears. There will be comfort for others, but none within. And in the end when one part of you dies the other parts usually follow, for even a lion wounded in the heart will soon have to die.
Yet for your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered Psalm 44: 22 and Romans 8: 36
Just exploring the dimensions of
pathological gloom in other writers such as
Edgar Allan Poe, William Cowper, William Styron, Randall Jarrell, Albert
Camus, Romain Gary, Primo Levi, Abraham Lincoln and
activist Abbie Hoffman.