Darkness has been closing in, in many ways, through various forms.
Some are derived from the usual sources.
But lately, they have been accompanied by an avalanche of stories.
And they link, and spread, and envelope, and engulf, and overwhelm, and suffocate.
And you think, “Why keep breathing, when it’s such a struggle?”
You see no one, hear nothing but your thoughts.
And they lie.
Tears roll down your cheeks and you have a tinge of relief that you still feel.
But that’s part of the problem.
For the dogs left outside to freeze. For the little girl tortured and killed by her mother. For the girl in class who is hungry. For the strangers you never met. For the loved ones who are struggling.
And it becomes a swirl of black and gray and indigo and it’s chalky and it gets in your eyes and ears and mouth and nose and lungs and you choke and sputter and almost relinquish and stop fighting.
Then, inexplicably, the corner of your crusted eye sees something.
It’s so small and weak you have to stare intently.
A tiny ember.
And you stare, afraid to blink, afraid to scare it away.
You sweep your hands through the darkness, trying to get closer.
The closer you get, the larger it becomes.
It is warm.
It is a beacon.
You reach it and stretch it and pull it around you like a blanket, tucking your arms into yourself and curling your legs to your chest.
You feed from the light.
Slowly, your eyes begin to clear. The chalky darkness begins to fade from your body. Its inky blackness drains from your mind.
And at last you see the full picture.
The rescue group saving the dogs. The prosecutor guaranteeing this mother will harm no child again. The offering of food. The people who are helping the strangers. The outpouring of love and support for loved ones.
So you hold on and keep breathing. And you take notes, remembering this experience. And you realize that there is always an ember there when you need it.
Even in your darkest days.
Always, always search for the light.