She thought
she had found the torch that would guide her through this long dark cave. She
had been lost in its never-ending maze for as long as she could remember. She
didn’t even know how she got in there at the first place. It felt like by the
time she could call back her memories, darkness and confusion were the only
things that beckoned to her voice. She sometimes imagined times when there was
more light and less confusion, but that time was no more than a short story;
the one that she told herself to soothe her tears as she tried to sleep in the
darkness.
She thought
she had found the torch, a source of light after years of darkness. She thought
wrong because no torch from outside would last long in her dark maze. She
somehow knew that she had to create her own light within (within what exactly?)
but failed to find out how. Oh, she thought, would it be just easier if she
stopped trying? Who had heard of this dark maze of hers anyway? Did she exist
before the dark maze? For she did not, what would be the point of trying to get
out of this? But her glimpse of light, her soothing story, stopped her from
giving up.
What was
the story? It was when she had the others, when she had things to consider
other than a dark endless maze. But they were so frail, so vague. Like a
snowflake that melted as soon as it touched your hot skin. She remembered there
were snowflakes. Or was that another story she invented in her muddled mind?
She thought
the torch had found her. If that did happen, she lost it and was lost again. For
now, it’s all darkness that was so thick she thought she would suffocate in it.
How she longed for something else than darkness. But would that possible if she
could not even trace any memories of non-darkness?
She knew
that this was all in her head. It was not real (really?). And she would one day
wake up in a bright room filled with the noises of early birds (would she?).
And that life, whatever that meant, would resume its pace.
If only
stories helped one found herself.
No comments:
Post a Comment