I think back to that home, the one that smelt of fresh paint and held colors of green, pink and yellow. The sunshine was welcomed every morning, never leaving a part wishing it knew what it felt like to be warm. I remember the first and last day I saw that home. The empty walls that reflected the possibilities of blank canvases waiting to capture the mosaics new and old, that had created every moment leading up to this one.

I wish I had known that darkness grows.

An unforgiving sickness that has a desire entirely geared towards its own objective. It is a mold, it is slow, steady, it catches you off guard, immerses itself into every area of safety and security. Soaking itself into every part that of the sanctuary’s you build. It allows you to put up Christmas trees and pretty lights, share meals and harbor in the laughter of one and other. It was a traitor; the floorboards held its most impossible secrets, the walls I loved were filled with poison, it watched me you slowly start to lose the power to breathe, and i existed without having a clue. One day it was too late, everything was covered lungs are drenched in toxins and every part of the home you had built is covered by an unruly marking.

They thought it was an impossible cycle to break.

I remember my last day in that home, the empty walls, the empty shelves meant for my new stories to be written, but now how desolate and barren we both became from the secrets that had been there all along. The one that had just ravaged my body and came for my death and yet while standing over the end of all I built, a ghost at my own wake watching the downfall of a life I put my passions and soul into, a small thought slithered through and I thought, I could exist in this, I am strong enough to survive in this, right?

Although illuminations work in magnificent ways, matched with intuition they carve paths stringing us along to exactly where we need to be, to do exactly what we needed to be done.

There was glimmer that always came through under door, the only light that remained, and I decided to follow it.

Into the unknown I went. Plagued by the lingering shadows, running had always felt like the decision of a coward. There is no greater misconception than understanding the difference between running between running to, and running away. I had discovered the weak run to all the time, to makeshift bandages to escape their their demons and choices, actions, insecurities and inner turmoil. They run faster, yet shorter distances than those who run away; the only way out of haunted houses, meant to trap you, belittle you. The pivotal switch to the abyss of the unknown, to know the saddest truth, to stay means to rot. Those who choose to runaway save their peace find an unprecedented strength; to say goodbye to harm. They say the cycle is impossible and break the duality of human kind overtakes. Only a few make it out.

The hunters stayed not far behind and while the darkness had as well, little illuminations peeked through. Some days the fog would become thicker making it harder to breathe, but there would always be flickers- glints of truth and openings to new passageways. The stories began writing themselves, the books became thicker and there were new shelves for them to fill up.

I don’t think back to that room much anymore, time has passed. I see green in the forests that fuel my imagination, pink in my favorite pair of shoes I’ve walked thousands of steps in and yellow; the consistent path of illuminations telling me to follow.