Started writing this one day when I was in a rather… dark… mood. It’s not finished. Not sure if I will get around to finishing it, but here’s what I currently have.
It’s one of those days where the weight of the blackness of loneliness threatens to swallow me whole. It threatens to pull me down into the deep murky depths of its unrelenting darkness. It’s uncaring indifference. It’s grandness of what seems like eternity. It’s one of those days that, if I’m not careful, I threaten to lose myself to the side of indifference and darkness, where nothing matters anymore and the world just passes me by. A world that, from this current moment in time, looks bleak and unapproachable. But inside I know that there’s always something positive to look forward to, I just have to remind myself that before I let the black engulf me completely.
A spark, that’s what I need, a quick bit of heat and flame that can set my soul aflame and awaken me away from the darkness. A little piece of light that can breathe new life into me, resuscitate me from the deadness that I have become. If I could find something, anything, that could be my guiding light, then maybe, just maybe, I might be able to pull myself out of this world of blandness and grey.
Her…. Yes, maybe she can be my guiding light. But, what if she denies me? But what if she casts me away like a leper, throwing me even deeper into the abyss, so deep that I may come through the other side, turned from myself into something that only the darkness knows. Something that humanity cannot touch, something that would destroy everything around it with no regard to my shell of a body. No, she cannot be my spark, something so fragile yet could ultimately destroy me. I must find something else, something that will not awaken the beast on the other side.
Mark sat there for a moment; pen in hand, looking for the words for his next passage. Unfortunately they didn’t come, and he put down his cheap pen and fumbled around in his tan leather jacket hanging on the back of his chair, searching for his pack of Marlboro Reds. After finding the half crumpled pack in the breast pocket he grabbed his knock-off zippo lighter, one of those cheap deals where they slap a clever sticker on the side. This particular lighter said “Lighter? I like my music heavy!” Mark opened the pack and pulled out the last cigarette, tossing the empty pack onto the pile of trash overflowing the top of his trash can. He lit the cigarette, after several attempts, and took a big puff, exhaling while looking around his room.
Marks’ room was a rather simple affair. There was his bed; a simple twin sized mattress sitting on the floor with no bed sheets and a solitary pillow that might as well have been a towel. Across the room from the bed there was a small particleboard desk with several precarious stacks of books and spiral notebooks. In the center of the desk lay Mark’s journal. His journal was something special. It was tan leather bound with the edges of the pages lines with gold leaf. On the front of the journal was Mark’s name, stamped into the leather. On the inside of the cover lay the message “Memories are important, like little nuggets of gold that only you can enjoy. Make sure to enjoy these, because one day they will be gone.”
After taking a few more puffs, Mark snuffed out the cigarette in his black ask tray and got up and walked to the bathroom. The bathroom was barely large enough for Mark to fit in, stuffing a stand-up shower, a toilet, and a sink in a small enough space that you could use all three at the same time. Mark lifted up the toilet seat, undid his zipper on his blue jeans, and left fly. After he finished he turned to the sink and started to wash his hands. While washing he caught himself in the mirror, and stared at himself.
He looked at his sunken hazel eyes with dark lines underneath them, his black facial hair covering his face, untrimmed for quite some time. He looked at his brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. He wondered to himself when the last time he cleaned himself up was, but he couldn’t remember. He finished washing his hands and dried them on his stained tank top, not knowing where the clean towel was. He went back to the desk, sat down, and stared at the journal. Finally, he picked up the pen and continued writing.
Work, now that’s a can of worms in itself. Using work to spark my inner flame could lead back to the very same problem that got me here, loneliness. For giving oneself completely to the cause of their work could make one lose all contact with the world, even to themselves should they go deep enough into the rabbit hole. No, I will not give myself over to my work, so that it can pull me away from the light of humanity and lock me in a black cell, holding me prisoner until I release myself entirely to it, becoming one with it. No, my work cannot be my spark.
After writing the passage, Mark stared at it, contemplating the many aspects of his job as a server security admin, the content of such a field which is so deep and constantly changing that diving into it is akin to jumping into the ocean during a hurricane.