When The Spirit Finds The Lighthouse

A frustrating silence pervades the air, raising agitation. We're just staring at each other like two dumb dolls trying to figure out how to make use of our tongues. It's a wonder how tight it can be at times when you need it to be loose. When you need the words to flow. When you need to break the silence before the silence breaks the soul. Classic choke case.

The phone has never seemed so tempting, and it's moments like these that make me die out of gratitude for the one who invented this heavenly poison. The world in it seems easier to interact with than the one sitting in front of me in the dim light, staring a stare so gazeless and weary as if all the life from its energy had been sucked by a Dementor to leave their body spiritless. Funny, because other people have suggested the same about me. It truly is hilarious and frustrating how our own reflection can stare back at us in different, infuriating ways. It's almost easier to deny that reflection has anything to do with me than it is to accept what it's truly saying.

The only salve to this agony is work. Intrinsically aggravating, maddening, exasperating work. The wall that comes up inside me every time I open an online textbook is much easier to break than the wall that stands between us when we face each other, tired and exhausted from fighting each other's battles and our own. The inability to fix the situation is almost as unbearable, if not more, than physical pain, because the solution is nowhere to be found. It's almost as if the harder we look, the further we go from the lighthouse as we drift deeper into the ocean's boundless vastness. Alone. Afraid. Unknowing.

No prayers and screams can save me on nights like these. I must handle them myself as I navigate the rough seas and desperately look for a sign of land, a sign of an anchor. Some days an island presents itself without much trouble, while some days it takes all my willpower to stay afloat and not offer myself up to the sharks and get it over with. On days like these it feels easier to be ripped apart by their teeth than to continue existing in this limbo. Does it get any easier? I don't know. But I sure as hell know this; the sea will always be there, eager to find new victims and even more eager to break their will, but we must find our way back to the lighthouse because if we don't, we'll find ourselves at the bottom of the ocean with the bones of every unfortunate sailor who couldn't find an anchor to hold on to because they never realised the sacred truth of survival; the anchor was never the island — it had always been the spirit.