Sunday, January 7, 2007

Conflict from Within

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The hardest part of this is uncertainty. That was all he thought to himself as he lay sprawled across the red-quilted bed. The only thing he wanted to do was to be with her - to be only hers, be desired by her more than anything else. However, the only thing he did was reassess the state he was in, and re-evaluate his life thus far. It was the only thing he did; it was the only thing he could do. Anthony was colder than he'd ever felt, but the patchwork comforter provided no warmth...nor did it provide comfort. Albeit useless, he still pulled the sheet from the nearby sofa to his bed, and cocooned himself within its confines. The room itself had been veiled in shadow and darkness and, in a way, was very befitting of his mental and emotional state. Dark, brooding, mysterious, inquiring, and not lucid in the least. It was the way Anthony liked it - at one time, he suffered slightly from anemia, so the cold was something he'd been used to. The darkness of the basement bedroom had also been familiar, as he also enjoyed his solitude and sleep. But right now, none of that mattered to him. The layered, wood-paneled walls were less than intriguing to him, and he did not care to pick up one of his guitars. He stared, less than intently, at the animated poster on his wall. In black print, it read, "A guitar is the human soul, speaking with just six strings." And prior to today, he'd honored that adage completely - in times of depression, he would pick up his jet black Les Paul and write until he had no more burdens to bear, buried within his chest. But now...? He glanced over at the row of the weapons of bards and scops. "I'm sorry, but I just can't write," he thought to himself. "I want to sing out my sorrows, but this hurts so much that I...I..." As he lay there, the soundwaves began to lap against the shores of his mind. An acoustic ballad had been set to repeat on the stereo - a song he had fallen asleep to the night before. However, it wasn't the melancholy blend of vocals and harmonizing guitars that held him captive. It had been the message within the song, and the picture had been painted on the canvas of his mind. A girl, standing on a rooftop...expressing her immense sorrow of being alone. This girl, whomever she may have been, had known the company of no one for what seemed to be the vast majority of her life. But as the ballad went on, and as Anthony lay, bringing the tale to life in his mind, a line in the song reached out to him, grabbed him by the ear, and demanded undivided attention. "The roof slips beneath my feet..." "...as the branches' backs lay for me..." "...the softest grass turns to concrete..." "...but I will fly, I will fly - you will see..." It was then that all of the self-contemplation, re-evaluation, reassessment...all of that suddenly skid to a screeching halt. Something hit him, and it hit harder than anything he'd ever felt; Anthony knew that he was depressed, but he had never felt so down in his entire life. The pain he'd felt, the thoughts he'd thought, the tears that trembled down his face - they were all so severe, so encompassing, that the experience itself was something that he had never known before. And this was a lot, coming from dear Anthony, for he had seen more than his fair share of disappointments, loss, and failure. Living in that hellhole of a house he was in, losing his father and best friend, and the physical abuse that was far gone (compiled with the verbal abuse that carried on) had made him stronger by experience, but each took a drastic toll on his emotional well-being. Many times, he'd thought of just running away and never turning back, leaving his pathetic life behind - come whatever may. He'd even thought of suicide before (which, admittedly, is a cowardly way out). Tears were not foreign to him back then, but even if they were...they were all too familiar now. Anthony hated confessing, but he knew the truth; this would not be something so easily overcome. He turned over on the mattress and rested his head on the pillows that held it and his sorrowful, secret dreams in the dead of night. What was he to do? Two sights generally allayed the confusion and cleared his mind, on more than one occasion: falling raindrops from a gray-tinted sky, or a burning flame, controlled and detained to a small glass. And seeing that the sky was not crying as much as he was that morning, he broke free of his blanket cocoon and walked to his chest of drawers. Set atop the wooden cabinet were a row of his candles, each varying in scents and the emotions tied to them. A small, circular tea candle glass held a pale-green disk, and he carried it and a lighter back to the nightstand aside his bed. As the candle slowly began to burn brightly, Anthony lay back in the bed, restraining himself again to the comforter shell that he created. The scent from the candle began to permeate the light-deprived room...a light air of cucumber melon. It had been the scent that she carried, the perfume she wore. Immediately, it resurrected many memories that were not so distant to begin with. Memories of nights long ago, when they had been awkward and innocent - and dreadfully afraid of what the other had been thinking of them. Of times closer, when they spent summer mornings sitting together, breathing in the warm air behind the church they loved and held so dearly. Of times that felt like yesterday, laying together in bed, entwined in each other's arms. The television was on, though the volume was low, but emanating a warm, blue glow. He could almost feel her there...as if he could breathe in her scent from her neck, kiss her wonderfully spherical cheeks, and do his best to show her just how much he cared for her... The wax began to melt, as the red, broken lines on his alarm clock began to blur together. After all, the minutes meant nothing to Anthony, because however many minutes stood between him and his betrothed...it was far too many to cope with. He then glanced at the object next to the alarm clock. It was the leather-bound journal that she had given him as a Christmas gift quite some time ago. He focused on it, transfixed; the black leather book, with the gilded pages and pagekeeper that held many of his inner workings and issues. After a few moments of involuntary gazing, he broke away from his seemingly spellbound state, and began to rise from the bed. "Maybe I don't have the motivation to sing or play, but I can do what I do best..." he persuaded himself. If there was anything Anthony was confident in, it was his writing proficiency. He wasn't the greatest wordsmith, but he was adept enough to take pride in it. So, he began to cut through the darkness and carry himself and his weighted heart up the stairs. Step by step, he could feel the depression taking a physical toll on him; his arms and shoulders felt as though they were anchors, his head a whirlwind of visceral thoughts. After the voyage of twelve or so stairs (that seemingly was a lifetime), he made his way to the station where the depression became the art of saving himself. As he opened the book, he thought deeply. He knew that he wanted to write, but just what was his message? After all, each and every work of art has an inspiration, a deep-seated meaning to be interpreted by the perceiver. However, subtlety was not on his agenda - he didn't care to have an underlying meaning bid for interpretation. He wanted to make it known that right now, right here was one of the most sorrow-stricken, angst-ridden, love-seeking individuals to ever spill his thoughts for the entire world to read. But where to begin? He needed a line that would begin everything - that would "come out of the corner swinging", and let the reader know just how he felt about this trying time in his life and love. Anthony took a deep breath and he spoke from his soul, as he dashed off his emotions in one phrase - it began... "The hardest part of this is uncertainty..."