The crimson sun setting in the distance with a promise to return the next day; the calm lake quivering with the kiss of the golden red rays that bear the orb’s promise to return; the soft winds brushing past the scene, capturing it in its invisible frames; these are the scenes that once used to tickle the romantic in me and prod me to write. Now, my stories have changed. They do not end with the sun’s promise to return.
They end with a forgotten promise. They begin with the darkness beyond twilight. They do not talk of the silent darkness of the night that make the stars shine a little brighter and the moon smile with all its meekness. They talk mostly of the darkness that scares you till you clutch your pillow and drown it in tears. They talk of the fear that the night induces; the fear of nightmares that grip your limbs and almost severe them till you open your eyes to find that they are still there.
My stories are now etched with the numbness that arise in your chest when you try to run away in your nightmare from that falling boulder only to find that you and the boulder are locked in some kind of endless time loop. They are no longer of the rosy shade but of a much darker hue. They are black. They are perhaps even grey. But none of them are white now. I have lost it. I have lost the white somewhere down the lonesome alleys I have walked.
There are unending voids and fearsome storms in those stories. They try to burst out of the pages they are restricted in. They try to scream out of flowing ink. They try to be seen, to be heard, to be felt. But there are only a few to read, fewer to listen. The storms scare many, paralyze a few. The voids are skillfully avoided because there are no beginnings and no endings there; nobody wants to get trapped in there. The stories are read perhaps, but the darkness is not understood and left unexplored.
The words do not wish to be white anymore. They are happy with the darker hues they have assumed. They just wish for their screams to be heard. The stories do not wish to be bathed in romantic touches. They wish to be accepted the way they are – enshrouded in darkness and nightmares. They are scary, yes. But will you listen?