Surviving Darkness: the beginning.

shelling out words like there ain't no time to over think it.

I need the sun to survive. I have been told it’s just one of those circumstances a few unfortunate people end up with. “So you can’t live in Seattle or San Francisco, so what?” But it was worse than that, I felt like my condition was driving me away from everywhere. A repetitious pattern of arriving and leaving that became so predictable it made me worry I had no sense of belonging, no feeling of presence. Boston was bleak, so I fell asleep with the lights on until they burnt out and I insisted I leave. My job transferred me to Paris, said nothing was permanent, but encouraged me to call it home. Where was the sense in that? Home was a name. On its own it had no meaning. Acknowledging this emptiness made me feel less, which eventually made me feel worse. And so I left—again nothing permanent—just a vacation, to spend some time by the sea and see the sun. My hope being a good feeling would stay awhile. I was destined for light.

She stood bathed in sunrise when I first saw her, surrounded by a sea of visibility, a mirror of linearity. Behind her waves tried to reach the ship, but withdrew with the wind. I, too, wanted to reach out, wished I could touch her. But my voice was immediately obscured by the fear of what she would say. And in the moment between breaths, intuition lost any sense and my voice became deprived of its tonality. All that could be heard was the intermingling of air, tide and birds beating their wings in the background. I suppose it was nature’s way of suspending desire and preventing thoughts from accomplishing action and making a difference of me. But I knew I would reach her somehow before the trip was over, in spite of nature’s or my nerves’ intention to interfere with fantasy. My fate was to hold her in spotlight.

At dinner three couples danced to Bobby Vinton. Two by two, lovers’ feet followed after his voice. "Blue on blue" had them weaving across the dining hall’s floor, lines of laughter appeared around their jaw and forehead, a compliment to their graying hair and fragile figures. It gave me the impression they had aged well, that their moments had been worthy of memory and so far they had succeeded at living life. I was jealous imagining their history, thinking mine had been no more than a postponement of the real event, escaping moments I couldn’t manage, cities I couldn’t bare and ultimately having to face what I had, which was a present lacking placement, purpose and presence at all. I looked back at what I left behind—people I never got to meet and therefore were never effected by my absence. I wondered how it would feel to be missed. Curiosity affected me; the question of “what could have been” had multiple answers and would have inspired multitudes of being. I couldn’t help but be intrigued by the possibilities, and even fall in love with who I wasn’t. I needed something new to attach itself, just once to be exposed to that. I was serious about this. The things I didn’t know outweighed all I experienced. I had no desire to share my autobiography. It couldn’t even be written. It was a fragment, if exaggerated a page. The meagerness of my existence would remain a secret. But as I sat with my back twisted, intent on watching couples convey closeness, I felt a simple pleasure being there. It was as if I could steal the experience and consider it my own, as if witnessing romance while waiting for dinner had the potential to affect a difference in me. Smiling, while other shipmates applauded the dancers, I wondered if the woman danced, whether she would attend to the spotlight. As the couples took their seats, I kept my smile, curious if the woman would have a partner. I wanted to indulge.