The Reality Of A Dark Imagination

Fire breathing dragons. Tears of blood. Dark hair. Golden talons. Cold gazes. Eerie graveyards. A broody man with hooded eyelids and sinister blue eyes. He is exquisite. Dangerously beautiful.

A story is forming in my head. An epic tale. Of adventure. Of romance.

Monsters lurking in shadows. Screams echoing through dismal forests, resonating far and wide in the silent night. In this world, it is always night. Black. Even the moon fears showing its face to the evil lurking beneath.

Snow spattered with dark-red blood. A raven-haired beauty lying nearby. She wears a white vintage gown. Her wrists seep blood that flows through the lace cuffs of her dress and eventually covers the pristine marble gravestone beside her.

Yes, a new chapter. A new sketch.

Why is it that at times my mind conjures up the most negative scenarios?

There are days when all the light and all the goodness is sucked out to leave behind the dark and dreary shadows that threaten to engulf me in their arms like a vacuum.

A black hole.

There is a black hole in my head.

Most days it lies dormant. Peaceful. I think up stories, plots and drawings that are pure and happy and light-hearted.

And then there are those times when every thing is on fire. Every creature bleeds. Every human cries. Hearts break. Old wounds re-open. Time stops.

I am immortal. Living in a sinister world where every person rips apart my heart and soul over and over again. And yet, I do not die. I can not die.

They laugh.

Their eyes sparkle portentously. Their auras reek of perverseness.

They stand around me in a circle. Taunting. Teasing. Mocking.

Behind them a snow-covered forest is in flames. Trees tumble to the ground, turning into ash. A gazelle with water in her eyes runs from the wreckage of her home. Birds fly up in a dark cloud and screech, lamenting the loss of the sacred trees that once used to shelter them.

They sharpen their knives.

“Enough” I say.

I whimper, fallen, on the cold, hard ground. I cover my eyes with my arm. No longer wanting to look at the twisted faces of those I once trusted. Those I once revered. Those I once loved.

“Stop” I yell.

Their jeers keep ringing in my ears.

I black out.

And then, I emerge from my black hole unscathed. A new creature. A phoenix rising from the ashes. Wiser than before. Stronger. More wary of the darkness that lurks inside every person.

I hold my head high. My back straight.

I look into my tormentor’s eyes and say defiantly:

“I am happy”.

Maybe that is part of my imagination.

What is real? What is fake?

Am I darkness? Am I light?

Or am I the ring of light that shrouds a shadow?

And when did this apparent story of fiction, turn into my own soliloquy?

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