Flash Fiction, A Monologue
Flash. Let it fade.
You have nothing left to give of your soul. It is dead. You are dead and worthless, not only because people tell you that this is so, but because you strive to believe them. You choose to let this moment in which you could try to be great pass you by, and for a moment your wish is granted. The spotlight begins to move away from center stage as that glimmer of hope that can only lead to destruction begins to reflect in your eyes.
However, this brief instance of your fading worth is not a lasting beauty. Although every possible ounce of you soul begs and pleads for self denial, the impossible elements that dwell deep inside of you fight back. These ideas fog over your depression momentarily to tell you that you still mean something in the world. They scream at you from the depths of your true character that is so often overshadowed by the putdowns people have inflicted upon your senses, slowly building up your mask.
You used to have an aspiration. You used to dream and conspire within the folds of your mind, creating adventures that only you could live out. This part has dwindled to a measly flame- an annoyance, really, as you strive to end yourself entirely. It is too hard to fight. You wish that every part of you could so willingly accept the value in which you posses- nothing. But, this luxury is not one that you can ever experience, as that small flame that burns at a consistent rate of determination and stubbornness. The realms of where it lives are not made known to you for its own protection and the fumes of anger begin to rise as a slow, black smoke stack, polluting the goals of your plan, which you could never make work. This anger comes from the desperation you have to put the flames of hope out, yet for some reason it only causes you to pile the fire with matches and lighter fluid.
The tension builds. Pulling, clawing, and pacing become your activities as you scream an yell at yourself from the internal voices that have so much influence. You tell yourself over and over again that you are worthless-ever so worthless. These cries of self-insult are returned with burns from the flame, yelling back your purpose in creation and reminding you of the dreams you once had and still have somewhere deep inside of the being you once called yourself.
Pain. War. Debating continues, and the insults increase in strength and number. It would be so easy, oh so easy, if the hope you had would just give up. How beautiful would it be if you could let yourself truly lose and truly cease to be, completely and utterly believing in your permanent stupidity and depression. But you knew no such luxury, for with every increasing insult came with a more painful burn from the flames of joy and personality and purpose. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Breathing came at a cost now, you fall to your knees, begging for depression’s victory or at least a temporary stalemate in this war raging in your thoughts. No relief came, and it became clear that this battle would contain casualties. A part of you would die off, one inevitably killing you and the other bringing with it hope and joys that you had nearly succeeded in convincing yourself that you did not want.
You are now running, dodging bullets, and running only closer to the flames. You are on a battlefield, war raging all around you. Breathing is not of the essence and surviving comes in a close second. But the heat gets stronger, the pull to survive becomes stronger, and your legs propel the wheels of the mind towards that determination that cannot seem to let go. You do everything in your power to fight it, to stop yourself from running after the fire. However, it is inevitable and you throw yourself into the heat, surrounded by physical safety and purpose. Until next time you are stationary on a sea of ice bergs preparing to rock your boat and wage war once again.