The door creaks open, and the light behind me breaks into broken shafts illuminating the darkness ahead. Swirls of this and bits of that dance in to and out of those bright beams. A thick layer of dust lays upon the floor, undisturbed and thick, like the blankets of cosmic clutter that litter the moon.
The room? This blog. Unkempt, silent, waiting. Quietness now shattered by paragraph and thought. Life, depression, business and busyness – all, inch by inch, closed this door and locked it tight.
Wetness coalesces in my eye’s corner until critical mass ensures a well that breaks the dam releasing an ocean in a tear, crawling down freckle and into beard.
I miss this room, this blog. A space of my own, to write and reflect, and send little nascent parts of myself whirling across the hyperspace of cyberspace. I miss these little bits of me, scattered behind doors my psyche has locked and left bolted around me. Some, I’ll never access again, their treasures hidden for an eternity in my mind, never to be discovered by another. Intense Sadness sits there, her hand caressing each door in turn. A tactile love you are not forgotten she whispers. She looks at me with my eyes, and I turn from my stare, unable to bear the fact that some part of me locked these doors and threw away each key, leaving me to comfort my own fadingness with just a soft touch upon rough wood and flaking paint.
A repeated refrain echoes in this room, as I look over posts from ago, sitting now piled in corners like old cardboard boxes, their sharpie labels faded: “I stare down the barrel of my own mortality….” It’s my voice, a line I wrote once upon another age, perhaps in misery or mired in depression’s mysts. I believe it still. I stand now on the cusp of 32, wishing it were 22 again, feeling old without right, used without purpose, and so terribly tired. Weary. Worn. Done. Not from age, but from life. A life I never wanted, still do not understand, and yet that stretches out before me. I have decades yet to see, but not the passion to walk the road that binds them.
All I want to do now is reforge keys and throw open each locked barrier and spill my creativity in a loud, glittery, cacophony of me. I fear I never will. Even were I to be able to live an eternity, I don’t know this soul could endure it. I don’t know this soul will endure another night, interminably alone, let alone a year or more. Arms to hold me tight, lips to whisper love and plant love, and eyes to look into my wounded heart and pour healing…those would get me through, spark me into a burning ember that might outlast the fusing sun. Without? I am the moon. Dusty. Cold. Forgotten, without light of its own.
I hope this blog, this room, remains open to me. All the old familiar places… I’m leaving sooner than I want to, but these little sylabs I’ve strewn across the dust are all I have, right now. They sit, impossibly shiny, in the weathered ageness, hoping they, too, will not become relics to comfort spiders who sit in webs and grow old from hunger.
I step away, a fading footfall down a desaturated hallway, where at the end, a door remains a crevice into a further universe of possibility.