This blog is supposed to be a documentation of my journey into becoming a writer. A record of the highs and pitfalls that I have experienced as I work on style, content, theme, etc. I have discussed writing through lockdown, and the epiphanies that occur when one truly applies what you have learned; I have talked about ‘reading as a writer’. Of late my posts have addressed my medical issues, and the related obstacles that have been presented to my writing. But, there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
There’s a light at the end of the tunnel;
a small one,
but it’s there.
It’s beckoning me.
A soft, warm, candle kind of light.
A campfire kind of light.
The kind where you sit with your knees tucked under
and melt marshmallows on sticks,
and laugh, and smile, and
it is
quite
far
away .
Surrounded by cold darkness:
an abyss of ignorance.
It threatens to extinguish
that small ray of hope;
the campfire dims and cools.
I close my eyes.
There is nothing.
Then...
flames flicker against my eyelids;
a cosy, orange glow.
Warmth spreads from all around; gloom lightens.
I am not alone.
I am not without light
Without heat
Without hope
There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.