Op. 1 No. 1

by Theodred Jasper

I'm sitting at the end of my bed wanting to walk through the convincing light of a vale. So bittersweet to peek through. Feeling that warmth shining on my heart. Glancing back, I do not feel warmth or comfort embracing my soul. The light is shallow here. I longingly look through at a gleaming sun, waiting for me. And here, candlelight dimly illuminates parts of these four walls and brings forth shadows.

This room was once as bright as any light that I have seen in the past or in the visions of my sleep. I was brought to cover myself up on this lonesome bed after I stepped inside when I closed myself up in this room to forever feel this light. It soon became clear to me that this light was not like the sun that I loved. The lights soon faded to reveal the true lights it held; the lights faded to only these few candles.

I only wished for the light and warmth to envelop me. To have this room keep me safe from storms and cold nights. But I now realize that the door is rusted shut with only a small window for that light to shine on my face. And that outside, there is only daytime and generous weather with many means for life beyond just one single point to be idle in. I could be free to wander with the warmth wherever I would please.

This room seemed like a trap, but I am afraid to leave and am not sure if I can. This room has been my home for a while. I know this room well, but cannot see it all with the shadows. The candles are so low; I do not dare to move them because I fear them going out. Leaving shadows to forever leave an imagination to discover them. To break the rusty hinges of this door would nearly break me.

But that warmth that I so desperately need is waiting just beyond there. And this room almost mocks me with the small window to remember that light. Must I stand up and break now for that greater light? Or should I wait for those hinges to eat themselves away to let me go?

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