Anticipation

Anticipation.

It tingles down my spine, and up again. It is a unique feeling, that has you both excited and anxious. Everytime I look at a certain notepad, I get it.

I have never ever, no not once, in my entire short existence, finished something of any literary importance, poem, story, prose. Nothing. And this is why this story I've been writing is unique. It is almost,

Dare I say the word?

finished.

I feel ashamedly frightened beyond my wits to say that. I get this irrational feeling, that if I say anything about completing this story, the ending will abandon me and I shall be left with another unfinished story on my proverbial hands.

I'm excited though, terribly and wonderfully so. It is no great work of art. Barely twenty pages long I think. And yet it will be mine.

Mine...

My soul laid bare upon sterile white pages to be viewed, examined, criticized, by any such reader. I have dreamed of this day since I first began the arduous journey of writing. Dreamed of holding those precious pieces of my soul, clutching them to my heart, and listening.

Listening, to it beat with life.

Ayn Rand says, "If you have nothing new to say, no matter how brilliantly you can say it, do not do it," I could never disagree with this writer further. She obviously never knew that there is nothing new under the sun. And how dare she order people not to write. Her words taste bitter in my mouth. I know I'm not writing anything new with this story, and yet, I defy her order. I will write a soppy romantic story that everyone has heard a million times, impudently, with my tongue stuck out in puerile anger.

And yet there is fear also. An over-whelming amount. I am afraid, afraid to finish it, afraid not to finish it, afraid it will become dreadful and illiterate once the last words are written. And so it sits, staring at me, and I sit, staring back at it, willing some unknown bravery to appear inside of me.

It will come, though. Courage will come, and I shall be waiting for it.

"The end is uncertain, and I've never been so afraid, but I don't need a telescope to see that there's hope and that makes me feel, Brave"
~Owl City

I used to be afraid of the dark.

It was routine. Clockwork. Night would come inevitably and I would flock to light like a proverbial moth. I would avoid pools of blackness in moonlit gardens, though the moonlight never comforted me completely, and sidle up towards street lamps on deserted roads. For some, darkness is a fear of the unknown, but for me, it is a fear of all my imagination can conjure up in the spaces.
Or at least it used to be.

One evening Night swept in my room as I pensively contemplated life. He dressed in his usual attire of sinister black, and doffed his hat at me in friendly manner. I was not swayed by his affability, and immediately moved to turn on a light and send him on his not so jolly way. But tonight was different, odd. His gloom was enthralling. His eyes were glittering stars, they bade me come.

And so I did. Forgetting my apprehension, I tumbled out into the open air, my bare feet traipsing across the slick backs of sodden grass. The moonlight sparkled on the dewy blades, like stars that had fallen. I felt euphoric. I drowned in ethereal Night. I danced, I waltzed with Night. And he was agreeable. He drew me, and I felt a part of his personality, untamed beauty, quiet skies, mysterious sounds. Sky was his canvas, and he painted beautifully.

But by the by, he grew tired of me, I think, and turned cold. I stood patient though, as he became sullen, then finally departed.

And bid him a silent farewell as sparks of light shot through the sky.

We are friends now, in a sense,  night and I. At least I understand him better, and I am no longer afraid of his mood swings, I bear them gracefully. Sometimes he is overwhelming and oppressive, dashing his canvas so that it is ruined, and other times he is fresh and pure, and paints smooth strokes.
I do not assume to understand Night, though. I learned to accept his violent changes, but I do not know what or when to expect them. For Night is not to be comprehended by trifling humans.
He is an enigma to all but one.