This was going to be word vomit, but it actually became something as I kept going. I think it says something about why I write in the first place.
Cold, wooden planks beneath me
shatter with every slow, careful step.
All the while blood-stained glass
obscures the sun’s comfort.
I approach, without hesitation.
My life force is out there, I know it.
It shines upon me, begging for us to reunite.
Stone walls surround my tiny platform
of this seemingly indestructible island of flooring.
An abyss is below my island, and now
the fact of the island kicks in.
Where am I? What am I doing here?
The bright outside world is over there
where I am to flourish, thrive, and die.
I am imprisoned, and yet have no recollection
of how I came to be in this position,
or rather, to be.
Thoughts ramble around my brain,
teeming thoughts, terrible teeming thoughts.
Each is a dagger to my skull, and the pain,
the inconceivable pain—
Curiosity forces one more glare at the chasm
split by my own footsteps.
A journal sits there, by my feet.
Had it been there the whole time?
Was I too deep in my head to see it?
Pages blank, but stuck in one of the pages
do I find a pen.
I use this tool, and record these daggers
hoping they will go away.
Eternity, that’s how long it must’ve been
before any sound vibrated through my eardrums again.
I am a sentence away from filling the journal
and the ink never ran dry.
Neither did my mind.
So lost I had been to not notice
the shards of glass covering my body,
penetrating my skin in too many places to count.
Freedom. The only thought to think now. Freedom.
The shards don't hurt at all, or rather,
they never did in the first place.
No longer were there crumbling floorboards at my feet,
but now, freedom...and a filled journal.