and by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
-Sylvia Plath




Monday, November 7, 2011

Trance

Total, utter darkness.
Blinded by the black.
Just a voice repeating itself over and over and over again.

Run

I frantically searched for a light, thrashing my arms in hopes of finding something; anything.

Run and don’t look back.

The voice continued its chant.  It was distant, but each word drilled relentlessly into my ears.

Next time it will be better.  Just like you’ve always wanted it to be.
I promise.
I know.

My lips began to quiver.  I felt my cheeks; they were wet.  Just a rough blanket was draped over my limbs.

The voice began to distance itself, faintly reciting the same verses until just a gentle hum filled the air, each syllable a soft beat pulsing through the room.
I tucked my legs together and hugged myself, letting the darkness sooth my shaking body. 
For a while, I just thought.
Thought about unanswered questions, thought about worries.  Thought about what the voice had been saying. 

The subtle sounds began to gain power again until finally, I heard the voice again.  This time, I heard questions.

Why are you running?

The voice was gentle, friendly now.  A hazy glow spread throughout the room like a grin wrapping itself around me.

Don’t run.  Stop and take a deep breath.  Rest your tired legs and wake up refreshed and anew. 

The words appeared one by one in front of my eyes.  It felt as if they were being sewn into my mind and stitched onto my arm as an everlasting reminder.

The voice began to fall away, the sparse questions drifted through my ears and parted into the surrounding black.

*snap*

Blinding light began to flood the room, hurling itself at me. 
I helplessly masked my eyes; it felt like I had hit my head.
Suddenly, everything froze.
I lifted my quivering hands from my face, blinking confused at the change of scenery.
Now, I was lying on a blue leather board, the walls a cool shade of green.  In an attempt to sit up, my eyes met those of a middle-aged woman, wearing a crisp white coat. 
She smiled down at me and gently pushed me back, feeling my head and observing my hands.
Finally, she examined my eyes and smiled again, seemingly satisfied.

“Welcome back, Miss Morrison.  How do you feel?”