Sharpening the Scythe

If walls could talk their screams would have been heard for miles if they were only attempted. Their vocal cords were withered from dry rot from the suppression of being able to express emotion. A looming exhaustion suffocated this room of self-induced purgatory. He was tired. Every night he would beg for the touch of death and each night a cloaked figure would appear, wield his scythe, sharpen the blade and leave. He couldn’t figure out why death kept sparing him. Each night he would knowingly lure him almost as if to taunt him. It was subconscious at this point. He embraced the darkness.

It almost seemed unfair. The monotony of being enslaved to a substance so small yet so strong had him baffled. He was too smart for his own good and the thought of being invulnerable radiated from every fiber of his being. The ego was his ultimate demise and through all the turbulence and adversity he faced there was always one repeating pattern; without purpose, we falter.

You could tell he wanted to thrive. We could see the sparks slowly catch fire to the kindling every time he would have an idea that would fulfill him or better his position. Yet, the urges of his addiction were relentless. They would always come billowing through like a freezing rain, extinguishing the flames, leaving a layer of frost just thick enough to hinder him from the breakthrough he so desperately needed.

Then one night, in the midst of all this turmoil, the cloaked figure appeared as usual, but this time was different. His demeanor was solemn yet calming. We watched in suspense as he slowly approached the man who was laying curled up in a fetal position on the floor. Whimpering in his sleep he yearned for the final blow to put him out of his misery. We could hear the vultures circling above the house. Ravenous roars flooded the air as they patiently stalked their next meal. The cloaked figure hovered over him. With his scythe gripped firmly in his boney hands he gently pierced the man’s face and as the blade began to peel back a sliver of flesh he was abruptly stopped. An aura of light shined through the incision he made where blood was supposed to be. He knew in this very moment it wasn’t his time to die.

The man gasped for air as he suddenly sat up. The weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. Drenched in sweat he quickly pressed his hands against his face and slicked back his hair. To his own disbelief he felt alive again when he was certain he was dead. The feeling of gratitude was overwhelming. “A second chance” the man muttered to himself. He then said it again a little louder. Realization had struck him. He knew deep down this was the time to change. He knew that this was his moment of clarity.

After years of watching this man slowly kill himself, we saw the once faded black and white room begin to return to color. His energy returned, his thoughts returned, he was beginning to become whole again. His new appreciation for life inspired him to be the best version of himself. Sometimes we all stare into the abyss for a while. The warmth of the darkness cradles us when no one else can. But the spell can always be broken. The fragments of the damaged soul and body begin to recollect over time. Each new day adds new meaning and worth. Sometimes in battle it’s the perseverance that prevails and allows you to come out of the other side. The struggle is what sets you free in the long run. The beauty is at the bottom of the rubble and debris, sometimes you just have to dig long enough to find it.