There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Whether or not it is within sight is irrelevant–it’s just there. It’s a tunnel, and all tunnels come to an end.
The tunnel is long. It is dank and suffocating. It echoes the feelings I thought had come to pass, and is relentless in doing so. There’s no escaping. Not until I’ve found the proverbial light.
Amidst the noise of my heavy heart, I grasp desperately at the walls for any exit, any premature escape from my self-stencilled Hell. It is dark though, unless maybe the darkness is all I can see. Maybe my peripherals are failing me. Maybe there is something I am missing in this tunnel–this winding, cavernous, objectified state of affairs.
Maybe I’m not in a tunnel at all.
Yet I’ve come to see that, within myself, in this very moment, I am on a set course. I see only one motive of circumstance in my life; I follow it blindly, aimlessly, yet distinctly. Everything else is a fog of deceit.
The life I am leading–no, the life I am following–is one that has been predetermined. I have adjusted my destination to be the result of neurotic discourse. I have tempted fate to find answers for me. I have abandoned my aspirations in favour of my aspirations for another.
My life has become a tunnel. I am blind to my reality, I am short of my expectations. I am in pursuit of something that has become my only viable option–my only light.
My tunnel has exhausted me. All has been for naught. Every feeling, every notion, every dream was but to be expended on another’s freedom from their own bindings.
And I have spent many days resentful of the fact that I have aided someone who has hurt me in escaping from their tunnel; finding their light. But perhaps I did no such thing. Perhaps I was their light.