Letter from the Void

Fictional letter written by someone’s authenticity(soul) locked away due to anxiety.

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I must share an unspoken truth regarding my existence, because I cannot let what is material fool you any longer. You may see tangled hair with a mind of its own, continuous fidgeting with any piece of paper in vicinity, you may know I struggle to decide what is my favourite colour— but the truth is I am tormented by thoughts I do not remember welcoming. Yet, they are here, they are loud, and for their turn up I have been accused. Never vocally, but I can assume I was since I am serving time locked in a room somewhere deep inside my bearer.

A soul— if I may assume I am it— locked in a room built without the consideration of a window or door, only one single lightbulb. Continuously on, continuously flickering. A flicker which seems to count each time my bearer speaks aloud and regrets her existence. The more it flickers, the smaller its trajectory lighting up the room becomes. A ticking clock, or ticking bomb— I cannot begin to know or guess. Instinctively, I gravitate towards the light. Hence why I stand right below the lightbulb, it is comforting to know that whenever the light will leave me I would have made use of the most time in the centre of its illumination. Some might say it is the light at the end of the tunnel, to me it is a glimpse of hope with an expiration date.

You cannot begin to understand what such boredom can do to someone. I have spent my time here fixating on the lightbulb as if it was the bane of my existence. Much of my efforts have been dedicated to freeing the lightbulb of its misery— for both our sakes. Because I do not know what would happen to me if the light was to stop. Cowardly, I have tried to avoid such possibility.

I can recall the very first time I gathered all my might for such mission. The ceiling is not too high— it is the same as your average house’s in Europe— yet, too high for me to reach. I looked amusing, I do not blame you if you let out a chuckle. I kept my arms extended above my head for years to come. If someone saw they would have wondered if I thought my arms were going to stretch thrice their length and reach the ceiling. You know what, perhaps it is exactly that which I wished for. Accepting my wish was against any natural order, I shared my trouble with my bearer— the one you see sitting at a cafe writing on a brown leather journal. She provided me many tools throughout the years; a wobbling ladder, once a screw too big and another too small, a new lightbulb of no use without being able to remove the current one. She tried to help, yet I often despise her. Shouldn’t she know better? She is out there, somewhere, feeling the warmth of the sun and witnessing its’ reflection borrowed by the moon. It is exactly here my conviction of her being the one who locked me in this room began. A thought I juggle back and forth with.

Having condemned her, I decided to face the unknown and drag my feet towards a dark corner of the room. It was the one behind me, to the left— in respect to my usual positioning within the room. I thought it to be the ultimate rebellion corner since I would be taking steps backwards, and towards the left which is my non-dominant side. Such action, however insignificant it might seem to you, a reader blessed with hearing the sound of leafs crunch under your feet each autumn, had consequences. She told me my new coordinates had introduced her to a new perspective. A tinge of a superiority complex, and since everyone else now seemed to stand below her they were treated as such. They had become pawns for her amusement— and she was amused for years to come. I heard her laughs echo through the room. Their source was that of a foreign land, but their destination I knew all too well. As much as I despised her, the laughs became comforting, and in the midst of the dark corner I began to forget of my own existence. I was asleep, or dissociated, or whatever label a doctor might put on it.

Life exists because it must end. All life holds follows this sacred rule, and the bliss— that of being asleep— was of no difference. The bliss ended when the flickers started to produce a static sound, an unbearably piercing one. Apparently my bearer— and perhaps most humans— was unable to embody darkness without guilt of their shadow cynically affecting the world. Her and I were connected through metaphor, the static sound was a metaphor for her guilt. A symptom I could not care less for, but it was that sound I could not bear. Soon, I found myself right under the light— the static sound had stopped, the flickering was to continue. It is exactly in this reality I write to you right now. A brief and somewhat uneventful story, I know. I am curious of all the fun activities you would pursue locked in a room for decades.

I felt compelled to share my story— that the vessel you see is one who keeps me here out of wickedness or incompetency. This is simply an attempt to kill time until the light dies. I mustn’t forget to add; if you hold a prisoner in the depths of you, one as myself, this letter is meant for them as much as it was for you. It is for the one you cannot forget, because their sorrow leaves a bitter aftertaste on any choice you selfishly make towards your greater good. As long as God grants you the power to imprison, I will vouch for your suffering. As for me, I will continue to speak truth into void, again, to kill time.

~indigo