Beacon

I sit in a quiet, dimly lit room in front of a blank page opened on an old laptop. My eyelids are heavy, my thoughts are slow and hollow. I take a sip of tea in hopes of refreshment, but it is cold and tasteless. I smirk as I compare it to my writing.

So many things I want to write about. So many ideas. Yet every time I try to it all just slips out of my mind and into the infinite void that our brains are too weak and primitive to grasp. I begin to hate my mind, my body, and ultimately myself, spiraling down into remembering every single mistake and bad decision that I have ever made, once again reminding myself that I am a bad person, a scum, a villain, and that maybe it would be better for everyone around me if I wasn't even born in the first place.

No. It isn't true. Not entirely, at least. I take a deep breath and recite her words. I know them to be true, because she never lied to me. I wish I did the same. Her words are like a beacon in the dark stormy ocean, a reminder that there is light inside of me, and that it was this very light that had saved her years ago, and keeps doing so to this day.