The Choice of Chances

Friday, August 14th, 2020 

‘Write a story about someone looking to make amends for a mistake.” 

“Do you want a second chance, a chance to make amends?” he asked. Like it was a simple question, the words floating off his tongue. The once weightless words now crushing my body and suffocating my soul. How can words carry weight? How can weightless words weigh me down?

I whip my head away, casting down my eyes. I can’t let anyone see the pain, the pain of my life written in my eyes. I stare at the horizon, my only escape. I let the sun burn my eyes, let the brightness darken and cloud my sight. I feel my eyes water, I let the tears flow. But, just like every time before, I don’t feel a thing. I don’t grant access to the sorrow, I won’t allow it to spill out. Once, again I am blinded, once again I have lost my sight. How can the sun in all its glory cause so much suffering, how can a light source, our saving grace, cause blindness? How can light bring about suffering and pain?

I know what is question offers, at least I think I do. But, I ask the question anyway, I want to be sure. “A second chance at what?” I reply as I turn from away from the sun. For a moment I am blinded, but in an infinite number of ways. The infinity of my blindness is not a far range, rather the constant and continous cycle of disappointment and shame. Seemingly solid and steady, a constant that never fades.

“A second chance at life, the opportunity to make amends once and for all.”  I hear his words, they are carried with more meaning than a small moment in time should ever have to bear. His words are a burden, although they hold no true form. Fleeting and flickering like the winter air, the words cause me to shiver, despite the warmth in his stare. 

His words seems false, like they can’t be real. Like a sweet song promising salvation, an illusive sanctuary. I always become entranced like I can’t get enough, but then the voice becomes insidious. The embrace becomes suffocating, each touch a new branding on my skin. 

“Its not the simple,” I softly reply. He looks at me kindly, shading his eyes from the blistering sun. “I know its not, but its worth it I swear, you can’t keep going on like this, I don’t know how much longer they’ll wait.”  

My heart seems to stop, my body betraying me once again. My life, oh my life, I shake as I reflect on the countless trials of terror and trauma, the transitions of living never smooth. It seems I would rise and fall, rise and fall, constant and cyclical like a devastating cyclone causing destruction and ruin. Each time I fail. I rise and I fall, and just like my breathe, in the end it failed me too. This is my second chance, but at what? To go through life feeling and fearing all over again? No. I cannot. 

I shake my head and turn away my eyes cast down. “I’m sorry I can’t, I give up, things won’t be better for me, I guess I just wasn’t enough.” I dare to glance his way, he looks defeated and his eyes plea for me to try, to try it all over again. I know he’s going to say it will be different, that I can change, but I don’t care. I would rather exist here, where I feel no suffering and pain. I would rather be a shapeless figure, left aimlessly drifting with the wind than attempting to live in a world where I’m unworthy and “never enough” again.  

Here I have no feeling, thus I have no fear. Here is where I will stay, here is where I choose to belong. This is my safety, the only one I’ve ever known. This is the sanctuary I’ve been promised. A place for those born standing out. Immediately separated, told they were “wrong.” The place of the burdened and broken. The supposed deplorable, the undesired, the damaged ones. The one’s born into a society where they were already dishonored, and casted aside. A place where I was never accepted, a place, I felt I never belonged. I spent a lifetime drifting aimlessly, dazed and confused. What’s the difference between living another lifeless life, when I can choose to never feel again? Why would I trade this existence, the one where I’m safe, safe from ever feeling that way again?

The lines between life and death are not living and dying. Rather, maybe they depict a choice between existing unconscious, or choosing a conscious unconsciousness? Why choose life, when it was never lived to begin with?  

Now, I fully turn away. I let my tears fall, but they are not from pain, not anymore. Gazing into the sun countless times I sought its brightness and strength, its powerful promise of life. In the end, it only brought me darkness and pain. A stinging sensation, swimming of my vision, the tears streaming from my face. Before I turn to walk away, I say amusingly to the ground,’Blinded by the light,’ what a silly song they used to celebrate and sing. Does no one realize, something thats bright should never leave someone left in the dark.” 

After, what seems like an eternity. The moment before I am out of ear shot, I hear his voice pleadingly call out. “Even the sun retreats at times, and when the darkness comes we are not blinded. We can even gaze at the moon and stars all night.” I look back confused, stoping in my tracks. “Sometimes its not about ‘seeing the light,’ its not about forcing blindness despite the pain.” “Sometimes its about letting the pain speak, listening and welcoming, learning from our grief.” “When we pay attention, we know when to turn away.” 

Confused, I begin to retreat. Did I hear him? Was that all in my mind? What does that message even mean? He takes my retreat as a welcome to continue, even though that was not something I want. 

He continues, walking towards me with gentle careful steps.

“Darkness and light, white and black, living and dying, those are

simply words and symbols given meaning in hopes to make sense of

a senseless world.” “People who claim life, who are revered as alive,

oftentimes lay unconscious inside. You can choose to never feel

again, but you sacrifice who you are, you may claim it doesn’t 

matter, you aren’t anyone, that you are no longer even alive, but

what if you could choose to be you, choose to actually make the

choice for life?”  

I want to look away, but I am entranced. I already made the amend for my mistake, I was the mistake, thats what I had thought. Thats what I’ve always believed. But, now I wonder, and I hate that I even allowed myself to wonder, to think such thoughts. 

“What if you could do it over, have a second chance at life. What if

you chose to be the artist, instead of the art? What if you could

paint with the colors of life, rather than hang unmoving and lifeless

on the wall? You will grow tired of this place. It may take mere

moments, or an immeasurable amount, but when you have all of

time, you truly have none at all.” 

“It seems all we have is time.” “You can choose to never feel again,

but trust me ‘never’ is a concept you will grow to hate. But, then

you will realize you can not hate anymore, and you will think you are

sad, but in time you will forget what even that feels like as well. You

will then realize you are nothing, nothing but a flat line. A line

without the fluctuations of the emotions, the waves that ultimately

shape your form. Nothing lasts, because it never begins. It is a

constant blank slate. Yet, one you can not be free off, there is no

second chance with this fate, no true escape.”

I want him to stop. I open my mouth to scream, but he continues on. This time his words no longer flow like a meandering stream, but a roaring river crushing and wiping away everything in its way.

“Born, like you said, ‘blinded by light.’ But who says you have to see

the world as everyone else does in order to live life?”  

Like a battle cry, a roaring lion finally ensnaring his prey, he lifts up his arms and looks to the sky. Almost like he possesses the power to bring forth rain.  

“The moon and stars shine in the dark all night long, yet they are

not blinding, they are not blamed for being too strong. They are

providing, a true guide, a rhythm, a life force."

As he brings down his arms, making a slow arch with his hands. Entranced again, I stare into his eyes, but as he looks at me, his face stoic and unmoving, its seemingly blank yet bleak. “Please, please, just answer me this.” His words are pleading as they fall upon my ears. But, the words do not match his tone, the flatness of his voice, there is not a flicker of emotion there. The words heavy, but they bare no weight, no form. 

“I ask you. . . “

“Do you think the moon believes she’s less bright, when she

already knows she illuminates the entire darkness of 

night?”