How long does it last? This dark night. The night which keeps me awake. The night which haunts me. That which fuels my means and cries I sit alone, knees to my chest rocking out sobs to a dark and empty world. I know that is not the world most see. It is mine… My domain.
That dark night I feel rising in my chest. The waves of anger, and regret, and sadness, which rock me. One after another until I am soothed to silent, voiceless weeping. How did I get here? And more, how do I leave? How does one leave the land to which they’ve journeyed for so many years. Sacrificed too much, and the road is too dangerous to go back.
But how long until I see the sun? How long until my heart is warmed by the light of the steady, burning sun? The moon is cold and fickle. Her light illuminates me but does not warm my longing. And so I grow cold. Cold and weary of this wandering. And afraid… Afraid that I will stop here. That I will not have the strength to carry on. Only one thing pulls me from this sadness.
This… this writing. This page. To share my dreams, and sorrows. Somehow… it makes me feel less alone. to be so brutally honest with the world.. a stranger, a passing friend. I want so desperately to share my heart, my soul. And no where in this life have I found a witness. Only myself. Watching to slow dance of years weave fine lines into my skin and grey the vibrancy of youth. Oh, foolish, wasted youth. Even now. How I long to take this day, this night, and seize it!
And all that pours out from this tired, sorrowed soul are words and tears. And songs.
And so I find myself. In a small room. In a big city. Miles from everything and everyone I know and hold dear. And I ask that I pass this test of will, of strength. That I grow, and evolve, and become greater than I am, great enough to leave my mark on this world.
Or is it enough, some may ask, that that world has left it’s mark on me? That it has. It has left a mark or discolored bruises… swollen and broken and disfigured what once was so pure, and innocent and full of dreams. Is this what you give me, world? Is this mine? This wretched, tired, wounded thing? I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to heal it, or make it beautiful. But I can illuminate it’s ugliness. I can take this tattered lonely soul to the spotlight… or cast it off to the shadows, to gather dust and be forgotten. I am what I am.
And if you do break for me one day, the dawn of my soul, I’d rather you find me out howling with the demons and racing the bitter wind than sitting here and awaiting the light that may never come.