The Flame and the Darkness
A bit of writer based prose.
A small zephyr of an idea alights upon my shoulder, as inconspicuous as it is insidious. A nagging thought that soon attracts more, and where there once was clarity there is now uncertainty. This impression begins to weigh, to pull, and to suck me down, and when I turn to look, I see a small crack forming within my mind.
Yawning depths of despair open up slowly beneath me, the chasm widening between my feet and the only thing I can do is to stop and stare in a paralyzed horror as my feet gradually lose purchase. The rest of the world falls away as I leap and scramble for the edge, one hand grasping, yet only finding a crumbling masonry that breaks apart at my very touch. Again I reach out, desperate to hold on, desperate for some sort of hand hold to secure myself against the inky black backdrop that expands below me as if an interminable hole.
I slip a little at first, and then each slip builds off the other, becoming more violent and jarring. In the space of a moment, my heart leaps and I realize that I am in free fall. Staring at the retreating white helplessly, I hope, I wish, for a rope or a hand to reach out and save me. But it never comes.
I am falling, but I pretend not to. I watch, helplessly, as the light from the world is slowly drained from my view. There is nothing. Not sound, not sight. I am alone. I have no support, but I act normal. I hide the fear. From what, from whom, I do not know. I am alone. Slowly I become numb as the cold absence surrounds me, pushing into me, subverting all that I am until I can’t tell where the darkness ends and where I begin.
A flicker of light, an orange glow that emanates from just out of my field of vision. And then it’s gone. And then it’s back, stronger and behind me. I can feel the impending stampede of a brilliant orange flame thundering down upon me, as if to run over me. But yet as the fire I can not see hits my back, I am not pushed down and burnt, but instead engulfed and buoyed- rocketing up, through the chasm and back towards the light.
Flames course through my mind, nestling deeply into the nooks and folds of my brain. My skin heats up, and I can feel the rage beginning to burn away the cold depression that grips my soul. The nagging doubts are cinders and the self-conscious worries that plague my confidence are violently incinerated. The greasy soot lands upon my face, now etched with a mocking sneer.
I reach out for the light of the world that left me behind in that darkness but not in search of hope. This is no simple anger, there is no object of my attention; only the desire to hurt as I have been hurt. I want to grip the light, to squeeze and feel the blood trickle between my fingers as I fuel myself on all my pain and redirect it outwards. I want to hear bones crack and skin tear. I hold on to the pain. The world did this to me, and so the world will join in my suffering.
But as I approach the edge of darkness, the rage that fuels me begins to fade. I don’t really want to hurt others; I’m just tired of letting myself be hurt. Tired of hoping for some support. Tired of being alone. And suddenly I’m falling back down into the abyss before I even realize that my rage is gone.
The gloom of melancholy rushes in faster than I can think, and soon it’s icy grip drags me down into the stygian darkness. The pain of the descent begins to swell- like a gas tank seeking a stray spark. Then the rage comes and I seek to project this pain on an uncaring world. But back down I go. And back up. And back down.
I finally land at the bottom of this pit and somehow feel less hurt than at the top. My eyes, at last accustomed to the gloom, come to rest upon the stairs climbing up the wall of my prison and for a moment I am intimidated by the way back. But there’s nothing for me here, and the only way out is through.
A small zephyr of an idea alights upon my shoulder, as inconspicuous as it is insidious. A nagging thought that soon attracts more, and where there once was clarity there is now uncertainty. This impression begins to weigh, to pull, and to suck me down, and when I turn to look, I see a small crack forming within my mind.
Yawning depths of despair open up slowly beneath me, the chasm widening between my feet and the only thing I can do is to stop and stare in a paralyzed horror as my feet gradually lose purchase. The rest of the world falls away as I leap and scramble for the edge, one hand grasping, yet only finding a crumbling masonry that breaks apart at my very touch. Again I reach out, desperate to hold on, desperate for some sort of hand hold to secure myself against the inky black backdrop that expands below me as if an interminable hole.
I slip a little at first, and then each slip builds off the other, becoming more violent and jarring. In the space of a moment, my heart leaps and I realize that I am in free fall. Staring at the retreating white helplessly, I hope, I wish, for a rope or a hand to reach out and save me. But it never comes.
I am falling, but I pretend not to. I watch, helplessly, as the light from the world is slowly drained from my view. There is nothing. Not sound, not sight. I am alone. I have no support, but I act normal. I hide the fear. From what, from whom, I do not know. I am alone. Slowly I become numb as the cold absence surrounds me, pushing into me, subverting all that I am until I can’t tell where the darkness ends and where I begin.
A flicker of light, an orange glow that emanates from just out of my field of vision. And then it’s gone. And then it’s back, stronger and behind me. I can feel the impending stampede of a brilliant orange flame thundering down upon me, as if to run over me. But yet as the fire I can not see hits my back, I am not pushed down and burnt, but instead engulfed and buoyed- rocketing up, through the chasm and back towards the light.
Flames course through my mind, nestling deeply into the nooks and folds of my brain. My skin heats up, and I can feel the rage beginning to burn away the cold depression that grips my soul. The nagging doubts are cinders and the self-conscious worries that plague my confidence are violently incinerated. The greasy soot lands upon my face, now etched with a mocking sneer.
I reach out for the light of the world that left me behind in that darkness but not in search of hope. This is no simple anger, there is no object of my attention; only the desire to hurt as I have been hurt. I want to grip the light, to squeeze and feel the blood trickle between my fingers as I fuel myself on all my pain and redirect it outwards. I want to hear bones crack and skin tear. I hold on to the pain. The world did this to me, and so the world will join in my suffering.
But as I approach the edge of darkness, the rage that fuels me begins to fade. I don’t really want to hurt others; I’m just tired of letting myself be hurt. Tired of hoping for some support. Tired of being alone. And suddenly I’m falling back down into the abyss before I even realize that my rage is gone.
The gloom of melancholy rushes in faster than I can think, and soon it’s icy grip drags me down into the stygian darkness. The pain of the descent begins to swell- like a gas tank seeking a stray spark. Then the rage comes and I seek to project this pain on an uncaring world. But back down I go. And back up. And back down.
I finally land at the bottom of this pit and somehow feel less hurt than at the top. My eyes, at last accustomed to the gloom, come to rest upon the stairs climbing up the wall of my prison and for a moment I am intimidated by the way back. But there’s nothing for me here, and the only way out is through.