To fall in love with a toxin is a maddening thing. It darkens the heart, and tears hope away from it like the scythe cuts a withered harvest from a cornfield. It makes a prison of the mind where there are only four inmates named fear, confusion, emptiness, and doubt; and memory is the warden. She holds the master key and throws it into a river of tears not her own. The bitter waters carry it downstream, to a distant silent sea where the sun still shines and the gulls do not cry. My eyes in their windowless cell play tricks and see her beautiful poison in all things, flickering by like little flames on a birthday cake or the way the harbour lights glimmer and glow when seen from a passing vessel. The oceans where we anointed ourselves are left black by her unholy whispers, the lies she fed my soul become the tinder upon which my broken heart burns. It crumbles to ash and ember with only the faintest thought of phoenix-like renewing. My fickle friend, humour, makes light, but the vacuum within still craves for her return. Why then do I anguish, over loss of a gutless viper? Her venom cannot leave my veins, it pulses through me yet and scalds the vessels with every systolic tide. The antidote is rare, and it is late and it takes its time, and it cannot come from the same fangs that once sank into me. It is Love, the executioner that ends fear, confusion, emptiness, doubt, those inmates whose screams echo all through my tired skull. Love, the deliverer whose approach the warden keeps ever at bay. She rides her shoeless stallion, over the dunes in a race against the setting sun, noose in hand and hood over head to free me from this iron hell. But until that salvation I shall live as I do, dwelling in a quiet place, accompanied by the madness of a drug I no longer know.
Emma Thompson | 71st Annual Golden Globe Awards (Jan. 12, 2014)
Emma for all of the awards.