Sunday, 8 January 2017

Counterfeit Constellations

I have always been intrigued by what many fear: depression. It has brushed past me in life, closeted by those close to me. I cannot pretend I know how it feels to be depressed, but as somebody who contends with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I think I can atleast understand. This piece is inspired by those people who I love and have lost, as a result of depression. 

A stale cigarette hangs between my listless lips as I lean precariously out of my window, my limp fingers fumbling with the lighter in the calm night air. Which, I unintentionally intrude upon. The gentle breeze hangs on me like an ill-fitting coat, complete with overflowing pockets that weigh me down, so that my back bends belligerently and my overall appearance is minimized against the sprawling metropolis that stands glittering in front of me.

In this scene, shimmering orbs dance merrily as they dominate the still night, like a performer on a stage as the curtains rise. All eyes are upon them, in magical anticipation. The warm glow that they emanate absorbs the mind and torments it with tantalising adventure, enticing the soul to seek all things luminous and radiant. 

These lights litter the skyline, attempting to contend with the stars for attention. A constellation of concrete pillars and curtain blinds. In my hand I hold another contribution to the artificially bright sky in the form of the cigarette perched pensively on my lower lip. The decaying embers dance lethargically in my peripheral to contrast against the wonders of the relentless rays that radiate through the sky. 

It is then that I notice the crumbling window frame that I sit upon, with its cracks that run deep into the woodwork, all splintered and splayed. Now I begin to see all the ruin that surrounds me,  beginning with the cigarette that wilts in between my fingers and the vines that stick stiff to the bricks, their residue a thick crust against the wall that they once thrived off. 

It is a dark place that I now inhabit, devoid of all light as my eyes accustom themselves to the bitter bleakness. I am stuck here, constantly seeing the dire reality of my environment, my focus never wavering from how close I am to wreck and ruin. I dream of the lights that I know are right in front of me, but I cannot see them. Instead, I am haunted by black, a nightmare of deep disaster.

Cruelly, my vision allows me to see others, immersed frivolously within the comfort of the lights. They bask in the glow and joyously call out for me to join them. I try, but my attempt is fruitless, for I cannot see what they see anymore. Instead, I witness a furious filament fit to burst, like a vein throbbing on a forehead and then utter darkness. 

Am I in a nicotine-induced coma? I always knew cigarettes were bad for you. Regardless, I inhale another bitter drag and fall deeper into an abyss. Blissfully ignorant of the fact that I am depriving myself of the bright shimmering lights. I have myself to blame.

It is in this pitiful place that I sense the glow within myself, beating rhythmically in my chest. It feels strong, quite overwhelmingly powerful. It wriggles inside of me and strains against my skin in a bid for freedom. I know that I am acquainted with the thing that hides inside of me.

It is not until I stub out my cigarette and look skyward that I understand what is contained within. It is my heart, so potent that it threatens to ignite me into flames. To tear apart my body and illuminate the path for others to follow me. 

The counterfeit constellations that are the lights within tower blocks and sky scraping offices are nothing but imposters. They do not fulfil me. They only plunge me further into nothingness. My way is mapped out within the stars that nestle within the inky black sky, beacons for hope, love and happiness. 

1 comment:

  1. Ahhhhh this was so good! I might print it off :D More like this please!


With freedom, books, flowers and the moon, who could not be happy? - Oscar Wilde




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