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“It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us”  Marianne Williamson


Don’t be afraid of the dark!  Don’t be afraid of my dark!

My darkness?  A room, a small room, a dark dusty room.  Empty!  Desolate!  Bare!  A room which folds its arms around, holding tight, keeping you safe.  A dark, dusty room filled with tones and shades of gunmetal and charcoal, shattered only by floating particles, dancing so slowly, illuminated by the flickers of sunlight flowing through the closed window.  Silence hangs on a thread, offering peace, solitude and the promise of perfect seclusion.

In the dark my thoughts are clear.  In the dark there are no distraction, it is silent, totally silent.  Here I can sing, I can cry, I can mourn.  I can spin whipping up the flecks of dust and swaying skeins of cobwebs suspended from the rafters, making them dance in a whirlwind of movement before withering to my resting place once more.  Here I can sob from the recesses of the deepest, darkest places, the lament of my anguish spilling into the calm and I can be alone, alone with my shadows, insulated from the cruel, cruel world.

But in my despair there is light, it is always there, always tempting me back to life.  Always beckoning me to stand by the window, to throw it open and let in the new air to blow away the grime of this solitary place.  To let the outside in.

Outside the sun is throwing its warmth, winding its shafts of radiant brilliance through a mirage of summer blossoms showering perfumes into the soft breeze.  Children chattering and bubbling with laughter.  Birds calling their sing song harmonies from the shimmering ripples of lime, olive and spring greens of rustling trees.

And standing here at the window?  Away from life?  Opportunity to observe, to watch, to listen, to learn.  Because when life is at its darkest, truth is crisp and clear, senses are heightened and judgements have clarity. The pain directed away from the intrusive thoughts that evade the desolation and loneliness, toward creativity, simplistic and pure.

The light is always there with you, waiting.  But it is the light that is fraught with danger, not the dark.  Light emanates love and, like a child delighted and enchanted with life, a beauty that can only come from within.  And so like a moth to a flame, a dark soul is attracted by the light he cannot have.  A soulless life that needs another to make him whole, to make him feel strong, to make the light his own.

No amount of love, no amount of light will ever make him complete, will ever make him feel the beauty and the joy that loving another person can bring.  His darkness is his torment, his anguish, his suffering.

My pain is for him too, because unlike him, I can feel.

So my fear, my fear is not the room in which I hide from life.  My fear is never wanting to leave the safety of this dark, dusty room.  My fear is that I will stay forever in the darkness of my imagination, haunted by a dark soul who seeks a light.

Only I hold the key.

And so I wait, wait for the time when I will be ready to use that ornate yet rusty, corroded key that I hold in my hands always.  To turn the creaky, aged lock and throw open the door to once again embrace the light and love once more.  Because unlike him, I can live and love this life, my life always.

Inspired by:  Daily Prompt: 1984