A VOICE IN THE DARKNESS
There are times when the man you see before you reverts back into a small boy, a child who still fears the darkness and the creatures that lurk in the shadows.
When midnight black blots out the sun and the air turns to a brutal cold that pierces into my fresh and crawls down my spine.
Then that boy retreats back into the corner of his room and shields his eyes from the monsters that inch closer and closer to him.
Why? Because I am afraid.
Because the world becomes heavy and the harsh words of my enemies serve as blackened arrows that fly across the field and strike my heart.
My mind races. My soul quivers. My spirit is weakened. I cannot stand. Not anymore. Not now. And perhaps not ever again.
I am defeated. I am done. I shall remain a child. I shall not move from my corner. I shall not speak. I shall not fight. I will remain here in the shadows and allow the demons of ancient times to devour me.
I am done. I am defeated.
But there in the mist of the darkness, of the pain, of my shattered spirit is a voice.
Not a voice of thunder or of lighting but a whisper.
“Why do you quiver dear child?”
“I am afraid…”
Then that whisper turns into a wind, warm and calm and strong. It wraps around me, covering me, and I feel myself rising.
I am standing now but my hands still cover my eyes.
“Open your eyes child,” The wind whispers. “It is time for you to open your eyes.”
And I do.
My hands drop from my face and I open my eyes, locking my gaze with the shadow creatures of the night, their yellow eyes glowing like candles.
But I am not afraid. Not anymore.
“Be gone…” I say. “Be gone from me!”
And at my words the wind moves through the darkness and sweeps over the wicked devils. Their eyes go dim and their black bodies turn to ash as they shriek out in pain.
I stand there unmoved. Unharmed. I see the sun rising in the east. The rays of the golden star flood through my windows and, like a flower, I embrace its presence.
I look around. No monsters. No creatures of the night. They were truly gone.
“But what if they return,” I ask.
“Then we shall defeat them,” the voice whispers.
“Together?” I ask.
And though I could not see it, the one who the voice belongs, I knew he was smiling.
She was Guinevere Starchild…
The heart she cries. She screams and aches and tears against my chest. She begs. She pleads. She violently thrashes within me. She cries out for something different. Something real. Something to touch her, ignite her, and set her free. She will not be ignored. She...
And what do we do when we are afraid to try again? When the voices and feelings of doubt start to close in around us? We stare at the canvas, the page, the screen. Staring and afraid. Afraid that we might not be able to create as we once did. Afraid that we have...