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This poem was contributed by a visitor to the website. Beautiful, yet tragic...
Darkness
Dwelling here in darkness,
Reaching for the light,
Alone am I,
In this eternal night.
Screaming here in silence,
No-one hears her cries,
Bearing a strange secret,
No-one knows until she dies.
A pain so unending,
Waiting for release,
No-one even notices,
Until her life does cease.
Dwelling here in darkness,
Reaching for the light,
Alone am I,
In this eternal night.
Though they see the scars,
They all ignore the pain,
What lengths she will go to,
To be visible again.
Dwelling here in darkness,
Reaching for the light,
Alone am I,
In this eternal night.
And as one chapter ends,
Another can begin,
Still alone she struggles,
To find the light within.
Her life is nearly over,
Though it had just begun,
What would you do to change it,
What would you have undone?
The lesson here is tragic,
So easily prevented,
If only one person would have cared,
This tragedy would have ended.
Dwelling here in darkness,
Reaching for the light,
Alone am I,
In this eternal night.
~Many thanx to the poet for allowing me to use this on my website~
This is an as-yet untitled piece of work by a very talented writer named Colm. I am very honoured that he has allowed me to include this in my website.
He awoke to a confusing, painful light. It seemed not only hurt his eyes, but be partially burning the closer parts of his brain. Instictively, he fell back into restful unconsciousness. By the time he rose properly from his alcholic slumber, he finally found the courage to inspect his surroundings. He assured himself it was nighttime, safe from the brain burrowing terror of natural light, and that it was cold. Strange noises and sounds occured sporadically to his clouded mind. He looked about his surroundings.
"A coffin, good God, I've ended up in a coffin, how the hell do they think they can get away with this?!", he thought. His terror was only overshadowed by paranoia.
But quickly realising they didn't make coffins either this big or with oars. OARS?
"How in the...?", he questioned himself. By then, however, the prolonged consciousness, in combination with the extreme temperature, brought his senses nervously back in line with an unfamiliar reality. The smell, the smell, the acrid stench of the sea on a bad day, like rotting seaweed on a bed of decaying faeces.
He retched in his personal grave, but tasted nothing but bile, a truly awful sensation passed through his body, not only was he sober. For that was bad enough. He was in the bad place for his ilk, the bottle of scotch in his hand was no use, it wouldn't stay down. Not at this stage, the terror of having to recuperate enough to be able to drink again. How long would it be - minutes? Hours? Days? Oh god, not days, never.
Satisfied that he wasn't buried alive, he realised that he better
"Nay, must!"
extricate himself from this, his icy and horrific surroundings.
He arose in a burning agony that started simultaneously from both his head and stomach, the two sources of pain seemed to travel towards each other and left him in a trance-like state of agony for a minute or so. Then with all the frightful treachery and mental scarring of being born again, he pushed his way through the tarpaulin towards the incadescent moonlight.
Shivering from the turbulent and consistent blasts of the sea air, knees shaking from the effort of standing, he retched again and believed the world to be at an end. Finally grasping and coughing for air, he stood on the pier and wondered how he procured such a curious resting place. At seeing his outside surroundings, a flash of memory came to him, like a cascade effect more and more came back.
The boat had seemingly been the best place to sleep, he remembered thinking it a capital idea. Now with dusk encircling him and the wind sapping his fading strength, he had to question the logic of his decision. The deserted pier now made no noise, just the short clang of ropes against masts and the odd shrill cry of the gulls.
Where was he, what day was it, how did he get here? These would be the normal questions one would ask oneself. For some strange reason however, they never occurred to him. Just a will to block out the pain. This was the only notion to assail him. Realising what hi must do almost reduced him to tears, and with a slow agonising movement, he laboriously released the top of the quarter-full scotch bottle. He swallowed with wary trepidation and as the liquid found its way down his quivering body, he felt the warmth and solitude it had to offer. The environment all around swayed before him. Slowly and methodically, he started walking his aching bones off the pier, back to what he could loosely interpret as civilisation. As his head swam, his heart sank, and he wanted to leave his solitude at the waters edge.
This was a new low in a downward spiral he had engaged himself in. He couldn't remember when it had started, possibly in his late teens. Back then the curve that he was in now wasn't so great. Certain subtle changes had taken place and gone unnoticed at the time. It was only now, with the malignant gift of hindsight, that he could recognise his place on the lower rungs of the hierarchial ladder of society.
Friends, true friends, had all but diappeared. The people he associated with now were the dregs, the awful sediment of scum and human debris that was left at the end of a tiger economy. He regarded them in the same was they regarded him, with a kind of deliberately beligerant attitude which ensured only a certain self-destructive type of personality would flourish. He had no time for the finished plastic otimism that was running rife through the populus. Too shiny, too perfect a pill for him to swallow. he had seen through it and from his own free will, decided not to play along in a act of sheer stuborness. It was the whole idea of rebelling against the rebels, by refusing to even enter into the spirit of rebellion. this was his ironic act that seemed to go unseen by all around. He knew the system around him was wrong, but to instigate change was such a daunting idea that he could, at best, take a back seat. A spectator who hadn't paid for a ticket. He felt like some awful creature spying through a window at normality whenever he came across it. Like some sort of infectious leech, he saw himself drain the life out of those around him. It was best he was where he was, he told himself. To be in a place where he could do no harm to others, only himself.
As he finally got clear of the pier, he slumped himself down at the nearest bus stop. If one came, he would consider it a slight bonus but he would just as happily sleep. He tried to impart some form of broken knowledge to the people around him, a warning from the future, trying to tell himself, or people who reminded him of himself, of impending doom. He gave up, or moreover simply trailed off after being met with the same patient, glazed look that civilised people give to the deranged. He had forgotten so much of people and places, all ettiquiette had left him now as he openly urinated in front of them. He had no gidnity any more, no identity, he was the bottle, in controlled him and vice versa. Inexplicably linked by some symbiotic bond that was more neccessary the longer it continued.
The idea of appearance was an anathema to him. There was no point. His was an alien concept in a world of shiny, perfect surfaces. Beneath the lustre, he thought, there was still the same insidious grime underneath. He was apalled daily at the fact that it was covered up. No place for an unshaven disheveled man. Every time something non-conformist showed up almost always he saw it sanitised and remarketed as another snack for the hungry consumer.
It was this frustration, more than anything, that had him on this path. He found a kind of cynical belief that at least he had chosen his fate, even if it was self-destructive, wasn't that the nature of man anyway? He'd often argue to himself that it was, but no-one else was around to contest him.
He was pouring himself back into oblivion when the bus came. Leaving the bottle resting precariously on the slanted plastic seats, which would have precented him resting the night at the shelter anyway, he dutifully waited for the other passengers to get on whilst he mimicked fumbling for change in his pockets. The coins were in his hand, but he knew his place, at the back, at the end of everything. A kind of daily affirmation that he had evolved into. Not just "presume the worst and something good might happen", it was "presume the worst because you couldn't raise yourself to see any better".
Sitting downstairs and near the driver, it was safer that way, for a quick exit, should the need arise, he became curious. Normally people would rather look out the window, floor, ceiling, or any other place than at him, but he was drawing curious glances, looks of concern, apprehension. he did not understand, he didn't like to look at his own visage, why should they? He touched his face, moisture, not sweat, something else. Tears, how long had he been crying? Was it the whole time, the memory had gone, the dismay of forgetting caught up iwth him, and he broke down, this time concious of his sobs and deeply scarred sighs. It was like an avalanche, each bad memory taking down ten more, on and on, more and more. His life. One struggle. No remorse, no let up in the tide of bad memories he was being covered by. Would it end, this journey? He prayed for it, hoped that sometime...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sobriety was not for the faint of heart and he knew his thirst would soon be upon him. This was the worst part he had to endure, to find a target so he might continue his descent into depravity. With the Social cheque another four days away, he warily began scanning the faces of the people around him. Looking for a victim to start following.
He enforced a kind of elasticated moral ethic for his work. Never women, children, nor elderly would even be considered. He passed them by without a second glance. Just the suits on their own or separated from some obnoxious work outing. He would sit and wait in the shadows of side streets, silent as the wall against his back and the ground beneath his feet. Waiting. He always tried and failed to justify it to himself. To spread trauma into others was a ...
(to be continued)
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