people know me as light-hearted and joyful, smiling and whatnot. and i am those things at times. but in the quiet places, where i love to be, i find that there is a sadness. it wont make sense to most, i dont expect it to. but, if i am to come out of my hiding places, then i have to admit i was in them in the first place, right?
well, this is something i wrote a few months ago. something it seems is always right below my surface. and now you know.
Every time I come here, it feels the same. I face a wall, so
high I cannot see the top, so wide there is no corner or end. It is windowless
and cold, layers of dark red brick and sorrowful grey mortar. What I long for,
I know without a single doubt, is looking right back opposite of me on the
other side. If the wall was invisible for but a moment, our eyes would meet and
I would finally understand my soul. Alas, no, the object of my desire and the
secrets of my soul are locked away with a key left in a dark hole far behind
me. I cannot bring myself to turn around, to seek the key; there is no strength
to leave. Day and night I stare through this brick, willing it to move or
willing myself to fly. I’ve already run the length to my left and right till my
lungs and legs hated me. I’ve jumped. I’ve dug. It is an eternal barrier. Every
hope and dream seems to touch the other side as I do, mirroring my behavior. My
hand has rested on this same stone for hours, if not days, maybe years. I’ve
completely lost track. I don’t feel as bad knowing they long for me as deeply
as I long for them. I notice I’m panting for breath, but I am not running
anymore. My heart races, though my feet are at rest. My mind is frantic,
incapable of new thought. I know eventually I will have to turn around and walk
away. But I can’t. I can’t. I hit the wall, bang it fist after fist producing
only numbness in the sides of my hands. The stones are so cold. It gnaws at me
to know there is a solution outside of myself, if I relinquish my faux control.
I’ve done it before. I even get half way to finding my dream in that way, but
then I think I can get the rest of the way alone…and I face a wall again.
Heavy. Yes, that how it feels on my chest, and in my heart:
heavy. Like concentrated gravity is funneled towards my soul. My freedom is
immeasurably close, and though I stretch out my arms to touch it I sweep only
air. My grasping leaves my hands empty, whatever had been in them before was
dropped in hopes of greater things. All I want to do is produce something that
will be of interest, something that resonates in other people’s minds, which
might lead to good changes and thoughtful conversations. Yet each time I place
my fingers upon the keys, the content eludes me and the weight comes. These
keys might open doors to freedom, but as I pick one and then another and form
combinations of words no doors open.
I feel the words, “Paint what is in the darkness.” It seems
it is all I can do to write this content as well. I ask, “What is in the
darkness?” …I am.
I am the wall, I am the gravity. I am in my own way. I am
hiding myself in the dark, hiding from myself in the dark. I am the cold, I am
the sorrow. But I am only in the darkness, I am not the darkness. That rings of
hope. There is hope of light beyond my eyes, if I would only open them. If I
would only turn away and seek the light, then I could depict what was in the
light. Strange comfort is offered to me by the light, while my eyes are still
closed, “Paint what is in the darkness.” It is not just me, but many who grasp
the air and inhale dust expecting sweetness. “Paint what is in the darkness.” A
canvas is only seen in the light. Though our souls might never seek exposure,
external content reflecting our interiors pokes holes in our walls. Piercing
light, no matter how small, becomes a source of pain to these eyes so
accustomed to darkness. “Paint what is in the darkness.” How can I? It hurts!
“Paint what is in the darkness.” I have to; it would fulfill my deepest
longings. I let time pass slowly. I watch it cautiously. I watch it mournfully,
knowing how much I’m wasting. But the words do not force my hand; they just
rest beside me, “Paint what is in the darkness.”
Sleepy, I grow tired far too easily. The amber sun
sets and its light cascades through the windows, pouring like clarified butter
onto the walls and floor. You don’t notice the shadows when you are taking such
enraptured interest in the light. This is the time of day that the pleasant
things fade faster than you like, causing you to realize you could have enjoyed
more of it if your head had been up and your eyes open.
No comments:
Post a Comment