The Fire

How can something so intangible feel so real? I cannot see it, I cannot touch it, yet it consumes me. It grows, it shrinks, it twists my insides and turns me inside, but on the outside I am whole. I ache. I ache to feel. I ache to bleed. I ache for the fire than will not burn.

I look in the mirror and I see the ghost. The ghost of who I could be, who I could have been. The memories are blurred and insubstantial. They are not enough. I am both myself and no one at all. I float in the un-dream that is an unending reality.

It comes in the daylight. It comes in the darkness and it eats me alive. I die just to breathe, to feel... anything. I look, I see, I touch, I feel, I taste, I hear and ask myself, what does it mean? The sun shines bright and hot and it burns my skin. I stand and watch, and detached, I wait for it to be more.

In the crowded room, I am alone. In the institution I am accepted. In the world I am madness personified as emptiness. “No man is an island” so why do I float unreal and disconnected in a sea of air and flesh and blood?

Hope becomes a concept. A wonderful utopian idea. It is there, somewhere inside. I hold it like an invisible box that I cannot open. Only peek inside to the hidden contents within. If only I could find the strength.

I am everything and nothing and maybe something small in between. I am black and white, orange and blue, day and night. I am the universe and the void. Everything is profound and empty and means nothing at all.

I breathe the air of non existence but I am alive. In my head I exist and nothing outside is really there. Do I create the illusion or is it created for me? Who in the world has that power? Do I?

I tell myself this isn’t real. This unreality that is my life, or more, my mind. Yet I cannot separate. I cannot break free from its both hot and icy grasp that deigns to drown me in the sickly sweet existence of what it is. It is nothing. It cannot be named. It has no name and no words are ever enough to make it real in a world that chooses to be blind.

I watch the children in the park and listen to their laughter and I can laugh, but when it is over there is only silence. Loud and deafening and unwelcome. I would give anything to hold that moment forever. To feel that hint, that tiny taste of joy that I once was, and maybe could be again.

I could ask why, but there is no answer, no reason, no anything. All I can do is rise each day to fight, to live, to be what the void inside would have me destroy.

The voice in my head is my own, and yet not. What are these floating thoughts calling me down into darkness? Yesterday they were not yet born and tomorrow they may be gone.

I am the treasure, the prize. My own, but who am I? I got lost in the darkness, the ocean in which I float, tangible and hollow amongst faces that cannot see inside and comprehend the darkness than lies there.

I’ll smile for you, if you will not ask how my day has been. What is there to say? I woke. I rose. I made it though. I sleep. I dream. And in the morning I will do it all again.

I live a life of subterfuge and lies. Sometimes the lies are real and for a while I can hide from the fire inside myself that is slowly going out.

I struggle to fight against its gentle pull, so enticing, calling me down into darkness and emptiness where it promises there will be no pain. I do not fear the darkness, but I know I should. It lies and seeps into my bones, my soul, whilst rendering me hollow until eventually I will not have the strength to rise.

The gentle lull that surrounds me is only the calm of the storm, for in the darkness there is only more darkness. What is left to do but fight? In the world of my mind where nothing is real and nothing makes sense, what do I have that is worth fighting for, when my mind begs me to give up and give in?

Once I failed to know. Today I have an answer, a reason, a memory of something more than this.

When I ask myself what is there worth fighting for? I can answer. There is me.

© Indie Adams 2010

Written by Indie (Miss Indie)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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