The Edge of Lightness

He stared into the sharp edge of darkness, and admired its definite lines, its curves and angles sharp, shimmering, flawless. There was a beauty here that in the beginning he could not appreciate, but now having lived within its shadow for some time, he had moved from fear to respect. It seemed somehow true that in not killing him, it did make him stronger, though in the beginning he would rather have died. Now, as he patiently, deliberately walked towards it, he could see that in this three-dimensional place it had only two dimensions, and when seen from flat on, there was only the darkness. From this place he was now, he could the see the brilliance of a thousand suns rising from its distant edge. The edge was hope; it meant that this too had an end, and that depending on where he started, the journey across might be long and tortured, or short and swift, but it would come to an end. The light was bright, distant, expanding to fill the void, not yet within his grasp, but from where he had once cowered, he could not see it at all. Now the light guided him, made his step more certain. Now he knew it had limits and where the path would lead, and that he could cross it.

The Potential of Ruins

Tock, tock, tock...

He took a slow deliberate sip of the neat whiskey, resisting the urge to swallow it wholesale. Pause, a swish, then a moment to fix on the unlit cigar. He wasn't supposed to smoke in the house, the unopened guilt keeping it on the edge of the vintage Yeungling ashtray. A long slow sip, reminded himself his father had been an alcoholic, and while he was becoming fond of the notion, using the soothing burn to calm his nerves wasn't a rabbit hole he wanted to venture down. He was a cauldron of potential ruins.

Tock, tock...

The room was quiet but for the sound of the fan on the dehumidifier at the other end, and that damn clock, it's beat reverberating through the soft light, louder for being almost alone. It kept giving him the illusion that time was moving forward while he waited the interminable wait of the brutalized. He was raw, emotionally on fire inside, ice on the outside, the constant gnawing of the unknown, the unpredicted, cutting deep into his psyche. Wounds had opened that frightened him for even being possible. The deep fear came only in waves, less of late as if he was becoming immune, separated by moments of emptiness, a dark that he was comforted by only because the fear was not there.

Another sip, setting down the glass, taking up and fingering the cigar, bringing it in close and gracefully inhaling its fragrance like the perfume of a lover.

To hell with it... He lit the cigar, long drag, another sip.

Tock...

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