Beautiful Things Happen In The Dark
I once heard that something significant happens in life every six months, good or bad. That every semiannual passing maybe, just maybe, your life would get better, that things would change. Although, the possibility still existed of having your world turned upside down again, to feel like the universe spun and awoke on the wrong side of the bed, that the sun would rise in the west and set in the east. But I held tightly onto hope: I prayed that I would wake up and and find exactly what I had been searching for, that my compass would finally point true north, and maybe the wind would be at my side. But even if the sun rested on my heart, lonely souls sink into the ocean with the sunset, and when hearts break they do it beautifully; painting the night sky with their exuberant reds and their deep scarlets. Their fierce setting hues pave way for an elegant sunrise, because every sunset brings promise to a new dawn despite our inability to see it.
The pale sunlight drifted through my lace curtains. The kind breeze blew threw them as though it was dancing around my room, putting on a show. The rays casted a warm ambiance on my skin that melded with it much like the way his touch used to. My hands once meandered their way subtly to the bones of his cheeks, careful not to break the pastel aura that lingered in the air. I was always ensuring that he was real, that he wasn’t merely a dream that would dissipate as soon as my fingers made the slightest contact with his skin. Now I imagined him there with me, quietly appreciating the nature as our favorite pastime. I envisioned my hands making the same route to his skin that they once did, but this time the air was empty, vacant of his being. The warm touch of his lips wrapping around mind was now a distant memory, a vague recollection of what it felt like to be his.
Nostalgia and I walked hand-in-hand; maybe it had even taken his shape and become my lover the way he was. A reality had formed around the silhouette I carried of him in my mind. A cascade of emotions had long desired to be expressed, yet no sound ever escaped by being; my mouth had become a graveyard of words that died on my lips. His smell lingered on the sweatshirt that I kept in a box under my bed, his contagious laugh rang in my heart. The freckles on his cheeks had become synonymous with the constellations; I only saw him when I gazed at the night sky. The sun had set on my melancholy soul for days, weeks, months. It covered me in a thick winter blanket that could not be melted until the warm rays came out for good. I had wished with every fiber of my being that the universe would be gracious enough to bring him back to me. I yearned to forget the sound of his voice, the way it softened when he told me he loved me, the way it shook when he whispered that he could not do this anymore. The words found their way into the cracks of my skin and permeated into my bloodstream; they were the reason for the existence of a tornado instead of a soul. The crisp air moved gently through my untamed hair; the smell of spring approaching was apparent. Here I found myself sitting quietly on the bitter surface of my dresser as I had many times before. The snow outside was slowly becomes puddles of dirt and debri. My heart had weighed heavy on my lungs for far too long, suffocating me. My breaths had become my new source to measure time, my new minute hand on the clock. With each passing minute meant another fragment of time closer to healing, but today felt different: The sound of my breaths were drowned out by the birdsong outside my window. The chilly air that was laced with sunshine made its way to my lungs, and it tasted sweet: I finally felt like I could breathe again.
As I sat here with the him-shaped hole in my heart, I realized that I had spent so long chasing a fantasy that there came a point when I stopped to catch my breath and I didn’t recognize where I was: Chasing nostalgia, reminiscence, the ideology of who he used to be. I spent so long chasing something that I kept running long after the possibility was gone. I spent so long chasing something that I didn’t realize that I had run away from myself. I had forgotten that the gracious setting sun took all my pain with it long ago instead of laying it upon me. The luminescent sky bore my burdens and drowned them in the ocean, and when the sun rose again in the morning it was bringing me the opportunity to start over.
To heal one must be brave; brave enough to peel yourself out of bed in the morning, brave enough to explore the darkness within yourself, brave enough to make the cognizant decision to start over. There are endless reasons for the existence of sadness, however it is learning how to use the emotions to your advantage that is essential. New beginnings come to those who learn to start again, those who remind themselves that each day is a promise for a new opportunity and a fresh beginning. When you stop running away from the sunset and dance boldly into the sunrise, that is when you begin again. The importance of tragedy lies in where you find your inner art. Dip your hands into the fluorescent pigments of a sunset and use them to paint the soft glow of the morning sun. Remember that beautiful things happen in the dark: When the sun sets and falls into the ocean, when the stars kiss the night sky, when the moon shines a spotlight. Life stays beautiful even when you are covered in darkness.
