They say pressure creates diamonds, but is that kind of clarity worth the pain?
I was so sure of who I was once. I went out into the world with no other plan than to live in it. I failed fast, rolled with the punches, and punched back. Through each turn of the screw, each stage of phoenixity, each boom-and-bust cycle, there was only room for me. My goals were all that mattered, and I resigned myself to living alone.
After running to the rhythm of the rain for so long, and for a reason that’s not worth explaining now, I finally found myself. What’s more, I found what to search for. I was shown the much narrower path I kept passing; one which I mistook for my present paradigm. I collected all the clues from each of my crises and journeyed to the interior castle.
I explored rooms filled with cobwebs and dust; mold and mildew; mannequins and makeshift furniture. Nothing felt safe, and nothing felt permanent. They were all cold and windowless, each with the same hue. One room at the end of the hall was totally empty, but for one mirror. I walked up to it, and it stared back at me. Suddenly, horror struck as all the shame that once never came appeared in the room around me as quickly as if the lights were flipped off.
Monuments to moments of selfishness and hatred. Statues of satiated desires. I wore pieces of it like armor; shiny and worth showing off, now to see they were merely weights that draped over my body. Suddenly I was drowning, unable to slough them off, and they threatened to sink me.
All these things that I thought were comforts and accomplishments were lies that my new eyes couldn’t un-see. I was abhorrent and blistered, shackled and shaking, and though I couldn’t feel them in their proper times, they were locked inside me all along. It was all on the brink of too much to bear.
Then a breeze came and soothed my insanity. The shame that surrounded had disappeared, though it left its scars. The walls turned from stone into wood, and the world beyond the still-opened door changed. I exited through where I once entered to find myself on a secluded island.
I stood under the Harvest Moon in solitude and silence, as the sea stumbled upon the shore. Unique strength came from without. The water changed me, and not slowly. I had a new question on my lips. I had a new song in my ear. I had a new vision of who I should be, and in turn, who I needed.
Patience forced my hand to write, and to write, and to write. Each letter coded with coordinates for my other half to find. I sent every one of them on an arrow, shot into the void. I couldn’t trust the delivery of wave-tossed bottles. Then I waited, and I waited, and I waited, until Winter came and froze the shores.
I thought it would be my last. I couldn’t see the end of the storm, white and blinding; frigid and fearsome. Truly, I was giving up. I only picked up my pen once more out of habit. One final message scrawled with a bleeding heart. I sent it off with no thought, and then, the unexpected happened – a voice flitted back to me from the abyss. Just as suddenly as I found my shame, I found hope.
Her love covered my scars. In the middle of Winter, she kept me warm. The nights were no longer dark and dreary. My despondency disappeared, and again I had wonderment of the season, making snow angels and drinking warm tea. It was like Christmas came with every conversation.
I knew that all the pressure which formed me was worth it. For if I stayed an unbothered piece of carbon, the light of her eyes would not have caught me where I was; would never have been able to see me under the rocky barriers built up around me. I was so sure I wanted to be hers.
She made the world feel new. She made midnight feel like midday. I no longer lived for myself. All my plans included her, and every dream held her presence. All my senses had new purpose: My eyes to behold her genuine beauty; my ears to hear her soft voice in the dark; my arms to hold and protect her from danger; my tongue to speak her name, sweet as a peach and peaceful as a river. I was no longer alone, and I no longer wanted to be.
The story isn’t yet finished; it’s only just begun. Each new chapter will have two protagonists: perhaps two anti-heroes. My story will forever be intertwined with hers, and a love like this, not even death will tear apart.
R.P.D. Sanders
