Muted Words and Quiet Eyes

The smell of liquor on my breath, the burning candle by my side. I write with no time left on my clocks and no air left in my lungs. I was screaming and screaming as loud as my voice would carry, but every one would deny it. They’d tell me to stop. It’s wrong in a way, but I know they mean well. They’ve only ever meant well. Every kind word and every judgement all cut just as deep when you see no value within. The judgements ring true, even if they’re false. The compliments fall on deaf ears when there’s no belief behind it. We’ve all been there, have we not? We’ve all fallen. We’ve all gotten up. We’ve all thought we never would.

Often I find myself writing the tales of gods and men, stories of great kings and fearsome beasts, the wrath of gods and curiosity of mortals. I’ve been trying to escape, I’ve been trying to understand, but instead I just end up lost. I end up alone. I’m okay with that. I like to be lost. I’ve accepted that I’m alone. I write as a gateway. I write to have a voice no one can silence. I write to find my home and my heart. My greatest fear is that I never will. It doesn’t matter how grand the tale I spin is, it doesn’t matter how fantastical and mythical the stories become, I will always fear the quicksand.

Sinking.

Sinking.

Sinking.

And sinking.

I struggle and I claw, I reach desperately for a hand to hold, I beg someone to help me, to save me, but those hands slips. Their grip is loose and unfaithful, founded on empty kindness and unreliability. I question frequently if I deserve it. Is it worth it? Am I worth it? Why do they care? Why do they follow me? Am I a leader? Is my energy so pure and powerful? I can’t keep track anymore. I’ve never understood what it was that pulled people to me like gravity pulls a stone from the sky. I lost faith in others the day I lost faith in myself. I spent years trying to become what my heart demanded of me, and when I finally did nothing felt real anymore.

Reality is not all that different from fantasy. There may not be dragons roaming or elves and dwarves squabbling, but the strife is there. There is prejudice, bigotry, evil, gray morality, conflicting views, political fallout, and people who rise up as pillars of history that we call heroes. I’ve always wanted to be a hero. I wanted to be the pillar that held peoples hope when they were too weak to do so. I wanted to be the symbol of hope, but the world stole that from me.

My life comes to a plateau where I can’t walk into a public restroom by myself for fear of death. One can hardly call it a plateau and more of a decline, really. A curse lingers and I’m consumed with bad luck and hammered with hatred. I’ve run off the path and have been haunted and hunted, but I am no sheep. I am no easy prey for I am like a lion. I am fierce and prideful and glorious in all my might. I will not back down and I will not surrender. I seek redemption and vengeance and glory and love. I seek to overcome the disaster that I’ve become.

I often wonder if I’m missing an opportunity. How will I be remembered? Do I have a legacy? Who will tell my stories if I don’t do so first? Have I missed my shot? Am I too young to have had any of that yet? Do I belong here? Did I ever belong here? The answers are yes and no and maybe so but there could have been more time. Why did I always feel like I was running out of time? Why am I constantly trying to escape to Middle-Earth, Westeros, Faerun, and Camelot? Why can’t I escape?

Everything is a whirlwind and my life becomes a hurricane. Eventually I settle down, I let the waves roll on, the wind drops to only a whisper, and I can find peace. Nothing may be right, things may be off, but my search for existence can carry on. My chance for happiness and companionship and adventure and romance still has life. I can close my eyes and escape to the worlds that I long for. I can finally exist. I can stop sinking. I can stop screaming.

I’ve finally stopped the hourglass.