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A ripple on the window becomes a river on my wall, distorted light from the street outside casting its face at me. I look at it moving slowly across the paint to the floor where it pools as shadows, a form of transubstantiation from light to shadow. The miracle enacted in my room with no one suffering on crossed pieces of wood, suffering only in the shadows that fill my heart.
Youíre snoring softly beside me, mocking my wakefulness with each breath that you take in a slight rumbling laughter that even upon turning away, still sneaks over the covers and steals around the back of my ear to dance upon my eardrum. Your words still echo in that space and so dance a merry jig with the laughing snores until I toss and turn in an effort to shake them all out of me and into the night. Let them be swallowed by the river and the shadows so that I can finally close my eyes and rest.
I picture myself in my mind, lying there, a hollow shell filled with inky darkness and the remains of long ago spun webs that hang off my ribs and my heart, heavy with dust from disuse. In my minds eye it looks not glistening and strong but rather like an old, painted tin heart that is flaking and dinged with misuse, resembling more a wind up toy from days gone than anything capable of emoting.
A soft sigh echoes through the empty space, betraying the small huddling presence in the corner, cowering in the darkness. Itís eyes bulge from the lack of use in the darkness, the iris a gaping hole unaccustomed to the light of the world. Itís stomach is bloated from lack of spiritual food, finding nothing to eat but empty memories and low calorie dreams, wasted away and no longer feeling from the cocktail of anti-depressants that its taking to help regulate the darkness.
Still, there are soft lights lost in the corners of the vaults, weakly pushing back the darkness barely enough to for it see the ruin that keeps it alive, tethered to that place by bonds that cannot easily be severed. It follows the lights when it has the strength, in some way vaguely hoping that it might find a way to brighten the light and for a short time bask in that healing warmth. It follows and follows and finds the weak flame sputtering and dancing alone and in his haste the breeze of his passing blows it out.
But all is not lost in the caves of the empty heart for located somewhere near the center of the twisted maze is the spring of hope that, while producing only a trickle, has enough power to convince me that there is yet a chance for redemption, for absolution, for joy. Silent tears run from the face of the abandoned one as it sips the waters and dreams of better days.
The pictures dim and I fall asleep, dreaming of chance and stumbles.
I know I'm dead on the surface But I'm screaming underneath