1.
I know we all go through moments when our self-reflection time becomes very dark. This time consumes us with dark feelings and thoughts. It’s scary, frightening, and quite frankly, beyond anything my ego is willing to accept.
One day, my sister told me to write it all down. She told me to write down the darkness I’ve felt inside. So here’s an excerpt from that,
Darkness. What do we really call it? An entity of our true self or just the mere understanding that we are capable of something far greater than we thought we could? For years, I have wandered. I have galloped. I have searched for who I am. Reality is, I can’t find myself without looking deep within. That’s what I am afraid. To find my true self, I’ll have to accept that who I am is who I am. I am afraid I won’t like what I find. I have been told that I will go far in life. What if my life will actually be stagnant? Ordinary instead of extraordinary? Perhaps that is my worst fear of all; not of the unknown, but rather the known. Scared to know that there really isn’t much to explore; what you see is what you get. Perhaps I will lie sleeping knowing that tomorrow when I wake up, I will accomplish nothing that matters. That I too will wake up just like anyone else.
And maybe my other fear is that I’ll hurt more than I’ve been hurt. That the anger inside me will come out and unleash itself upon all those who’ve hurt me, but I’ve secretly kept hidden. How do I describe my inner anger? Is it anger or a black plague. This darkness that I feel would affect those around me.
I am not trying to sound crazy. No way. If I ever want to make something of myself, I cannot be crazy or seem suicidal. I can’t be seen as weak. The weak are seen with pity and I’ve done a good job of hiding that, thus far.
2.
This is just a poem I wrote from the viewpoint of the inner darkness:
I am locked up. You tell me I’m messed up. You’ve caged me. Telling me that I can never be free. It’s funny because I thought you cared about your sanity.
I am locked up. You tell me to shut up. Telling me I’m nothing. It’s funny because I am something. I whisper to you. Tell you nothing but what is true. You shut down. Go ahead and put away your social crown. I’m better you see. Maybe that’s why you to talk to me until early in the morning, precisely half past three.
I am locked up. You tell me I’m black. You’ve put a color on me. Telling me I put darkness to your day; painted all gloomy and gray. It’s funny because I am red. I give you fire. I will not hold a cease-fire. I am red. I show you the lives that have bled. Bled because they’ve ignored me. Chose not to cure me.
I am locked up. You tell me I don’t exist. You say I’m not real, and continue to persist. Telling me that I’m an illusion; that I’m just a pigment of your imagination. It’s funny because I am real. I do feel. Be scared of me. Because when I come out, everyone will have something to talk about.