What Awaits Me?

The light of the day, weaving between the tree branches, warms everything within its reach. I navigate the terrain and my stream of consciousness carefully. I reject the sun and the empty promises it makes. I trust only the destination awaiting me. The sunlight feigns safety, and it will diminish as all things do.

The light of today crept away slowly—slow enough for me not to notice. This is the same way you left me, because I didn't know you were leaving until my sprawled fingers suddenly could no longer feel you. But the promise you had made me, your assurance that everything would be okay; it is just tangible enough to cling to.

The surrounding trees, the woodland creatures, the snapping of the sticks beneath my feet...what was sustained in light leers ominously without it. What was once a wide corridor has now narrowed to an ever-constricting tunnel. If I squint my eyes just right, they make out a pinpoint of light in the distance. It fuels my hope that the arms of the tunnel will release me gently into yours.

As inevitable as this day eventually turning to night was, so are we. So are we. My feet hesitate to trek forward without the use of sight, and I cannot help but become engulfed in a darkness that appears impassible. For to see is to believe, and you evade my field of vision.

Tendrils of doubt chase me, threatening to envelop me entirely. I break into a run to attempt to leave them behind, yet they match my pace. Each time I trip, I regain my feet. The exertion creates pain, but I ignore it along with anything holding me back. All I have is your promise, whispered to me in the dead of night. If I were to lose my faith in you, I would lose everything.

Nothing other than you could prompt such tired legs to push onwards. Branches materialize out of nowhere, scratching my exposed face and arms, my boots catching on rocks and tree roots. My eyes blink as furiously as my resolve works to suppress doubt. To stop is to die, so I instead cling to life, despite the fact that my eyes are still yet to adjust to the dark.

I skim my hand across the wall stretching beside me, roughly textured as it is. I feel grateful for it’s guidance, though anxious for when it will end. Uncertainty is survivable, failure is not.

The tunnel becomes endless as the pinpoint of light never seems to grow closer. My spirit is weakened, my fire of passion is resolved to smoke and smoldering embers. Desperation wins out, and I have to ask:

When the sun leaves us in the chill of night—-are you, too, seeking my warmth?