Smoke ablazed through high rises. The crimson sky filled with dark clouds. I could barely make out where I was. Faces covered with sleeved elbows, coughing, trying to escape the thickness of the fumes. I feel sirens throughout the space, but I hear nothing. Faces of old friends smudged with ashes, their eyes begging me to stop. They knew it was me. It was my doing. The smoke was possibly from the fire I started. I couldn’t stop, though. I do not even know how I started. I was too stunned as I imagine them burn, too immobile from where I sat in a Starbucks cafe having life conversations with a friend.
These characters from my imaginary world slowly suffocated along with my childhood and everything that was a part of it. That childlike spirit of curiosity, creativity, and confidence that I seem to exude before, had extinguished. I fought the daily struggles of adulthood every day since to regain those qualities back that seemed to have burned down.
Just like a flickering light, these qualities come and go so quickly. One minute it was on, then it would suddenly turn itself off without warning at all. Sometimes it would stay on for a long time. The worst is when someone controls the switch and turns it off completely. Gladly, no one has changed the bulb yet, because it is up to me to do it. I just don’t have the tools and set of skills to make the change nor have I found the right bulb to replace it with. Knowing that the light is unstable is the first step to making changes, isn’t it? But such a bulb is unique, I keep getting the wrong model. Or perhaps the bulb does not exist at all, instead, a natural light source needs to resurface. Nevertheless, the search continues for the light, so that one day, I could illuminate the shadows within forever.
