Possibilities. We all have them, lurking perhaps where we least expect them, but they are there, waiting. They can be hard to see because of the perception we allow our minds to be in. Perception, the way we perceive the world, is a choice, a choice we make everyday sometimes without realizing it. We can see the world as a scary place, wrought with inevitable misfortune and harrowing pains, or we can see it as a beautiful and amazing place, filled with opportunity and joy. In the end it is our choice, same world, same shared reality that we all inhabit, but how we choose to see it matters.
I was 17 at the time, undiagnosed, and my mind had been circling the roaring abyss for weeks. I was isolated in the fact that I was currently living in Irkutsk, Russia deep in Siberia with a friendly but altogether unfamiliar Russian family. I had signed up for a summer abroad trip and Siberia seemed like the place for my dark mind to go. I was ravaged daily by thoughts to hurt myself and others, sometimes without thought I would lash out at those around me, silently in my mind. I had purchased the only artists music I knew how to say in a terrible Russian accent, Marilyn Manson, which I listened to religiously trying to soothe the ever growing hollowness that seemed to burrow its way into my chest. Also when I bought the music I got the only DVD that was in English and not subtitled, Cmeptb Smoochie, or in English Death to Smoochy.
I recently put myself in an old closet and closed the door. In there was an old office chair of mine and some random boxes and a broken computer. Sitting in the chair enveloped by darkness, the only light coming in being from the cracks of the closed door resting against its frame, I realized how much noise there is outside of that room, how much pressure to succeed, to make money, to love, to be loved, is outside of that room.
The man stood looking down upon the rough dirt path with a sense of heaviness. As he took a slow and steady breath he began walking, one foot in front of the other, time and time again. As he walked he felt the muscles in his leg tense with each step forward, all the while his eyes fixed on the path below him.
As I sit here beneath a lofty tree, watching the rain fall, letting the cool wind of the storm stroke my skin, I find voice within myself. This summer storm, with ensuing rain, speaks to the very darkest reaches of me, encouraging, coaxing me to take up pen and bring it to paper. To once again write.
I squabble with myself and my fear, pushing me further down a road I do not want to go down, one well traveled and traversed, filled with self doubt, pain, and longing. I have walked this path many times throughout my brief life and it leads to the same murky abyss in every instance, placid, waiting for me to allow it to devour me.