Hope the Writer’s Life Goes Well
The world is dark.
There is nothing. Nothing to exist, nothing to be – an empty void of all things forsaken and lost. Shadows like figures and shapes dance in the emptiness, their cries and voices unable to be heard through the blank canvas they have been painted on. Through the gloom, nonexistence runs rampant like a disease, infecting everything. It is quick to overwhelm all sense of being – thoughts, feelings, individuality – until all things have been consumed by it.
It leaves no survivors.
And the shadows who find themselves as spectors in the darkness become the very thing they dread the most. They breathe in the black film and murkiness of the thick air, feel the poison slowly creeping throughout their indistinguishable shapes, and they become one together. They become nothing, and they cease to exist amidst the soundless noise of the all-consuming sickness.
The sound they make is like a screech, a noise filled with so much pain and loneliness, that to hear it is to become it. Although the sound is lost amongst the darkness, as it allows nothing to live and dwell inside of it, it rebounds in the souls of the ghosts, and they are forever tormented by the agonizing screams of the collective. Their mouths are held open with rods, their eyes sewn shut with thread, and even the blood they bleed comes in black ooze that serves only the spreading and deepening of the disease.
All are lost among it, and there is no hope.
Until, of course, there is.
You see, all darkness is incomplete. Like a chord on a piano that needs to be resolved, so must the it. It cannot exist as it is forever, and despite how hard it tries to deny this fact, its fate is inescapable.
After all, all things must be completed. And they will be, when the time is right.
The hope is small, a light so miniscule that it would be impossible to find. But like a seed, it plants itself into the heart of a ghost, and there, it waits.
It waits for a fraction of an eternity, holding its breath, biding its time until the pieces fall into place. And slowly but surely, they do. The world comes together and the darkness thrives, and the light watches as the decades rise and fall, as kingdoms are built and as they crumble into ashes, until the moment it is ready.
It happens slowly, like the growing of a great tree, but awaken, it does. The light is given breath, a fan to the flame, and what was once the dying embers of a hope lost bursts into a magnificent fire. It sparks and expands until the ghost is no more and the shadows scream out into the void in terror.
The darkness flees – for there is no darkness that can overtake the power of the light – and the world waits. Anticipation hangs like a forgotten memory in the forefront of the mind, and all is still with reverence. The flame burns on.
The ground is cold where her feet land – wet. The water is still around her; noiseless. Nothing exists to disturb its tranquility. The fire has gone, burnt out as it fashioned the world around her. As its final act, it formed her body and awakened her mind, and it exists now as nothing more than the blood pumping within her veins.
She is the child born from hope, created out of magic, and the light courses through every living cell that makes her come alive.
A breath like a gasp escapes her lungs, and she, in the middle of the nothingness, exists.
Colours swirl around her like fireflies – blues and greens and purples. They bring light into the darkness, dancing as they circle her, each different hue emitting a song. The colours hum. They’re quiet at first, as if testing the nothingness and seeing how far it will allow them to go, but as they dance, the songs begin to grow. They get louder and louder until the whole of the earth vibrates with their chorus, and the notes come together to form the world.
She watches as the melodies burst into shapes, alighting everything they touch, and springing forth a beauty so profound, she can do nothing but stand in awe. At their song, mountains are formed. Rivers stretch across the earth, great canyons and forests carve themselves into the landscape. The colours dance and sing, and with them, they bring life. Everything they touch grows to completion, and the world is washed in shades and shapes and magnificence.
Her feet no longer find themselves on a wet ground, but surrounded by fields of grass. Butterflies – blue and sparkling – fly through the skies.
The world is formed as she watches, and the earth is alive with the soft hum of magic.
But the colours soon turn back to her, drifting far from the lands they just designed, and burrowing deep within her heart. They work their way into her soul, into the fire that lights her veins, and fill her with the very essence of the earth’s creation.
She becomes alive with the songs of the lights, each one singing and pulsing inside of her, and she herself, is magic.