Young Writers Society

I was expecting something completely different. Something new and modern: branded by the humanity of consumer products or whatnot. In it’s place, however, I stepped into the middle of a novel, where the heroine finds a place of sanctuary for an hour, an hour well earned by her efforts, an hour indispensable to her future. I found myself in the role of this girl; it came naturally, yet not subtly: I felt the change in my thinking and perceiving.

My senses were finely tuned to that of a pinprick needle could not have fallen without my noticing its plunge towards the depths of the stony floor. The room was dimly lit with candles throwing images and shadows, all dancing to a religious and private ritual only known to the specters of life. They were ghost and remnants of the past services, and the foreshadowing of the future ones. They were gray and black and brown: the colors of the earth, reminding us that we all come from mother nature, no matter how great or prosperous we become in life’s journey, we shall all be recalled.

I heard the whispers of decades of individuals who had passed through this room, sat in the pews, loved, hated, rejoiced and wept. I bent my head very low, almost touching my knees, and blacked out my mind for one instant: I felt peace at last, thought wavering and futile my attempt for total and interrupted peace, I received a little, all the same. I heard my mother whispering, talking, chatting, unconscious of the acute pain I was feeling. Unconscious of the many different ideas and images spinning through my head, making me want to yell out with pain and fear and suffering.

How ironic is it? To venture into a place or worship and rest, and find oneself overwhelmed with sorrow and pain? How ironic, such a good place could make one human feel so alone in the world. The tears began slowly at first. I felt that first trickle from my half closed eye, making its journey to the tip of my pointed nose, making its plunge to my lap. It left a small dark stain on my satin skirt. The first of so many to come. A promise of more hurt and grief before the final conclusion was set.

I prayed. I know not for what, but I felt God’s prescience there so intensely. It was not comforting. It was painful. I grasped out spiritually, clinging onto his velvet and magenta robes. I cried out mentally for help, for salvation, for death at that moment. I did not want to live. Who would in so much pain? Some self-inflicted, no doubt, but also wrongs dealt out by life; that cruel caretaker, residing over us all. The figure that can bring so much pleasure and so much sorrow. The oxymoron. The supreme paradoxical figure. I hated him. I hated his false promises. I hate how he urged us to reach for the moon and mock our attempts. And then we fell, not unlike Lucifer from heaven, to depression and a morose existence for days or weeks or years. I hated him with every fiber in my body.

I looked up to the ceiling, a black expanse of dark velvet covering the top of the room. What would it feel like to be in complete darkness? No more troubles. No more acting. I wouldn’t have to play a role anymore. The role of the pretty, devil-may-care girl with a flair for all things fashion and bright, and a wit so self deprecating and amusing it left others breathless at times.

What would it be like? I realized that I’d miss life. Even if it meant pain, I could endure the pain if I knew who I was. But I don’t. I never have. I catch glimpses of myself at times: a fluttering shadow, a silently said phrase, and a flick of the wrist. But for the most part, I’m my own stranger. I stopped my weeping and wiped my tears away. My face was splotchy and pale, but I fixed my eyes upon the various candles lighting the room.

I was mesmerized by their wavering flames: each representing a life that could be extinguished at any moment. Each battled the torrents of wind that life brought forth. The strong ones held their ground, resolutely. The weaker, more vulnerable flames died out silently.

I made up my mind then to be a resilient flame: one who could take on the world with a shrug of her shoulders and a bark of a laugh. A girl who was capable of crying and even insanity, but one also made out of a tough material. She would guard her heart closely, and love her friends even closer. She’d appreciate life and what it gave her, and spurn the rest that caused her heartache. She’d take on the world with that bull-headed look reflected in her hazel eyes, so well known to her parents, and beat life at it’s own game. And that girl is me.