On a stage I stand.

A dramatic piece, a production that pulls at hearts, begs to be seen. It deserves a standing ovation, people on their feet and wiping at their tears.

I am on a stage, being watched.

Yet I am not a play, I am not some drama to hold gazes, be watched and then once over, be forgotten. My misery is not something I display for your amusement, instead, it is a beacon, a lighthouse trying to find a ship to guide to shore in hopes the captain will be the one I have been waiting for, that he will have the words I need to rid my heart of this darkness and to show me how to find the light.

Instead I find myself sitting lonely in a lighthouse, standing behind the bright lights of the stage… always behind the light, never before it.

It’s so much easier to spread light, to show laughter, to share love, than it is to find the light you give out, to get it back. You figure these people you give it to will see you, see behind the light and into the lighthouse that is cast in darkness.

There is no greater sadness than to live in misery and watch the people you love watch you, doing nothing. They see, they know you well enough to see inside your heart, to feel the difference in you. Not knowing what to do, or what to say, they watch. They watch your play, waiting to see what will come in the next act, they steer true through the the heavy grey clouds of your storm towards a lighthouse they have no intention of going into. Why would they? They’ve no words to deliver to you once they come.

Lonely are the nights spent waiting, hoping for a saviour to find you inside the darkness and pull you out.

Sometimes your sadness, misunderstood, is returned with anger. They see you on your stage, thinking you crave attention instead of a friendly hand to draw the curtain.

It is understandable not to know what to do, unforgivable to not even try.

Do I not give you light? Do I not attempt to bring you laughter? In times when you are lost, do I not do my best to lead you home?

Can I not, here in the darkness, have the same from you? Oh Captain, oh stagehand, oh lover.

See me as I sit here, back arched as I lean into the knees I pull in closer around me, hoping that the feeling of my own warmth will be enough to ignite a light inside of myself strong enough to fight even the smallest amount of darkness I keep harboured away inside me.

I look over my shoulder, pleading. Yet you do nothing, you watch, ignore maybe… I don’t know anymore. Maybe you don’t either. You’ve watched the play too long, become too familiar with the repetitive plot to think it will ever change. How could you not know that by dripping a single drop of ink on the script, you can change the whole play.

I am not a play.

On a stage I stand.

A dramatic piece, a production that pulls at hearts, begs to be seen and pulls at everyone near. It deserves a standing ovation, people on their feet and wiping at their tears.

I am on a stage, being watched.

The stage is brightly lit for you as you watch me, but I look out at darkness, the darkness of my misery that threatens to creep past the orchestra and take hold of me.

Misery doesn’t love company, it craves salvation.

Like a disease, it moves ramped through your heart, souring your soul and feeding off of anything it can. It is only when there is nothing else left for it to feed on that it craves misery in other’s, it’s needs to spread and stay alive stronger than the need to save yourself.

It’s hard to find your way out through the darkness, hard to pull yourself out of the tight hold it has on you.

We are just people. We are constructed of weaknesses, flaws, mistakes. Sometimes we need to be saved. Sometimes we wait for salvation.

I wait for the captain, to come up the steps of my lighthouse and light a candle. The dim flickering light seems to be the brightest light I have ever seen inside my darkness. Sitting by the candle light, I know he does not have the words, but I don’t need them. The trip he took to deliver me this flickering light was enough.

I wait for the stagehand, to pull the curtain and end the monologue of my sorrow. I am cast in darkness, but it is his strong hand that closes around mine. He pulls me through the shadows and out. His fingers are warm in my own, they are the greatest warmth I have ever felt in the darkness.

I wait for my lover. He lives in the heat with me, tossing and turning in sheets that smell of us and nothing else. Frustrated when the heat dissipates and my heart cools. It’s not my fault. Sometimes when my heart stills, my breathing steadies and the fire that fuelled the heat of the moment has all but burnt out, I am left waiting. I need the warmth of his hand on my naked back, the comforting kiss of security along my shoulder blade, his arm enclosing around me, holding me fast to him to keep from from slipping back down into darkness.

I am human, I sometimes need words to know what someone is thinking, I need gestures to know what someone feels, I need assurances to know that I am not expendable, and I need light in order to find my way out of darkness.

Misery is a battle, a war that can not be won when fought alone.

Oh lover, I am not a play.

Do not watch me as misery takes over.


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