Within her mind was always the agitated concept of doubt, yet however she placed it, she could not seem to dictate what effect it would have on her. Unwilling to except the hand of others, she struggled with the journey of living and the tragedy of knowing. To be someone that people noticed, was a dream she could only imagine through the echoing walls that held her from the person she aimed to be, yet as the darkness of the walls and the lights of the windows framed her vicious circle, she could only question the memories.
Her mother was a kind, genuine creature, who always showed her that there was more to life, then just co-existing. But she could never see the beauty which her mother would talk about. Her father had left at an early age, leaving only a hole of bitterness and resentment in her unprotected heart that would always question her ability to live. She never thought of him as someone that loved her, but as someone who could not handle the concept of having a child.
To think is to feel, and that’s not a journey worth taking. Can searching for an answer too graphic to understand be a conflict, and can you reach for something surreal and pray that it’s not an abstract illusion? If finding out the meaning of what once was, forces out the beauty from which it came, can I be judge of what I feel is right?
So my father left me when I was young, and my mother blames herself for his disappearance, yet I feel compelled to still find him and ask those questions that haunted me for the last few years. So I play a game in my mind, a game that allows me to dictate the outcome, and that provides me with the acceptance of his cowardly soul. If I look through him, can I see what ambition he had? Can I tell his story through my eyes? Yet I’ve grown out of caring about his particular emotions, or the way his smile is.
Time was never on her side, but it was a factor that she become used to. A timeless presence of doubt was always abundant, it clawed and ripped apart the person she once knew, choking and crushing the things that seemed awake in her. Her father was her source of doubt. Like a demon, holding her to him, getting tighter as she grew older, but She would always think about him and the day he left, but never for too long, there was a voice inside of her that protected her from the bellowing and shame of his once gentle voice that always seemed to settle her as she slept. The controllable aspects of her mind always vanished when she left her corner. She was obligated to stay there never to move, never to feel the way others did. Her mother thought she was doomed to a life on her own, a life that could only bring pain and destruction. Nothing was foreseeable in her darkened future, the lines were scratch out, living a complex life so full of confusion and sorrow.
As the night settled in and the luminous light was but a figment of what once was, she dwelled in the opportunity of delusions and fiction. And as she swayed from side to side, holding her legs ever so tightly, the images of her youth seemed to pour out of her like a twisted play acted out by the misapprehension of others. To seem as normal as possible was always her goal, finding the fault in the memory of others and not herself, but that was a game too complicated for her to play out. The night was colder than usual more putrid, more harmful, its shivering wind was almost alive, playing with the restless and fearful. She could not move, she could not breathe, her reactions were slow, almost as if something was holding her down, and taking away the very essence that is her.
I can’t move, I can’t feel, is it my time. The air is so cold, I can’t seem to warm myself up. If I move I know I’ll become insane, the melody of deformed creatures, is move vivid than usual. I am a ghost to myself, a plague which I’ve grown accustomed to. Can I play out the things that seem to be awake? can I change the meaning of words that I don’t know and rehearse them till they become the knowledge that changes my situation? My mother has tried for so long to recreate the image I have made for myself. The image that I am now has scared her. She never looks at me the same anymore, her looks are more disgusted, more tortured and they seem to be on fire. I can feel her slipping away from me. The night is the only time I don’t feel safe, I don’t feel like me, it’s cruel and mindless, possessing a nature of a different kind. If I run, how far will I reach before it swallows me, taking away all that I am, in the night I am a monster, a nightmare that would bring tears to all that saw me.
In her mind she was the very reason of all the suffering and pain to others around her, she could only escape the nightmare if the sun was up, for its rays of purity and truth were the only reason she had not become the thing that seemed to corrupt her. She was the meaning which you could not find, the lonely hero that was only visible through the sun. It seemed that nothing would be able to release her from herself. A soul forever doomed.
