A Path Through Nothing and Memory

Is heat the absence of cold, or something else entirely?

I think of fire.

Heat.

I recall the feeling of sunlight flickering across my closed eyelids as I would lean against the balcony railing — face tilted upwards as if to be as close to the sky as possible — for a millisecond.

Blazing.

Smoldering.

I’ve been walking this path for what feels like an eternity now. I’ve learned not to trust my thoughts - to push them aside, to remind myself they only mean to harm me. Those meticulously placed candles flash through my mind. The little golden flecks embedded in their wax sparkle like a thousand golden stars. These stars dance mockingly through my scrambled thoughts. I think of the sun’s rays drilling into reflective surfaces, how I would press my hand to the thousand mirrors in that infernal hall, and how I would spend an eternity back there — however long an entrapment my unrest would sentence me to — just for a moment at the fireplace. Any amount of pain I’d already endured would be worth the fleeting warmth. I relish the fact that I have always had a vivid imagination and a vivid memory - what else would allow me to conjure moments when I have access to a beautiful fire, glowing and flickering? If only I could truly have that now, I fear I would envelop myself in warmth to such an extent I wouldn't even notice if I was burning. In this moment where all I sense is cold, I have nothing but the sheer will to remind myself what comfort feels like. I haven’t counted the days since I said goodbye to Theron. The forest watches me now that I’m alone. I can feel its eyes. Before, I was intrigued and compelled to such a level that I couldn’t bear to stay home while some other eager soul ventured off into the unexplored darkness.

We didn’t expect it to snow.

I agreed to the journey on the spur of the moment, out of sheer necessity to prove to someone, perhaps everyone, or admittedly even myself that I could be something.

Before leaving, I wanted to have a life.

Now I just want to live.

With each shuddering breath I take into my lungs, my energy depletes. Each passing intake of oxygen pierces through me, a painful gasp for life that is the only thing left keeping me tethered to this frozen world. I don’t think it will ever stop snowing. My vision starts to blur, and what was once a clear picture of the frosted wasteland around me morphs into unrecognizable shapes before my eyes. All that is left is the faint outline of trees that disappear into the imposing, almost menacing canopy of icy nothingness. Still, I press my hand against one after another, feeling the solid, frigid bark as I mechanically haul myself along. It helps to have something to ground me.

Theron always said I was his grounding force after all, the voice of reason in the back of his mind.

And yet, neither he nor I listened to my own advice.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in the past few days, contemplating everything that went down before I left, what could be going on at home right now, and especially my decision to come in the first place. In futile efforts to stay awake, I’ve recited bits and pieces of things I’d memorized here and there, scattered words or disjointed facts that came to my mind, even a jumbled life story I can no longer piece together. The latter had stumped me even before all of this. Theron had asked me about myself once.

I can’t quite remember what I said.

My body desperately fights to keep me alive, but now my mind is on autopilot, now finding a twisted comfort in the trees, the only landmarks for miles, even if they’ve been reduced to simple lines amidst the desolate, white oblivion. They remind me of an artist’s bold, blunt strokes before they add the fine details that complete the picture. I gaze out at the abyss before me, as well as I can, because to turn my head is to induce the increasingly throbbing pain. I suppose I like the simplicity of this place, in some disquieting way. Thoughts remain still in my usually racing mind, yet something soft and comforting is stirring in my chest. Is it the thought of someone back home, whose treasured memories I share, that is a source of forgotten eternal warmth in my heart? Or perpetual nostalgia, I regrettably keep there–– arguably to fill the void of something else that might be missing?

My eyes long to close.

I fight to prevent myself from succumbing to the urge to relax, to give in, tuning out a deceptive and dangerous voice that is constantly telling me that I'll be okay if I stop and rest. I resist the tantalizing idea of letting death embrace me. I tell myself to remain awake, not because of the threat of frostbite, the unpredictable beings that call this place their home, or the fact that if I spend over a minute motionless in this cold, I’ll certainly die.

That no longer remains a concern of mine.

I remind myself that what keeps me alive is the fear of dreaming. I know if I let my eyelids fall shut, I will see that town. Perhaps the incessant longing to return to that place is what’s clawing inside my chest. And if I see him, I won’t be able to wake up. I won’t want to. I know I’ll leave everything, abandon all of my tenacious drive, throw away my slim chance of survival, and let my eyes remain closed long enough to slip away into the perilous temptation that is sleep. I can almost view a couple of blurred shapes in the distance, but I reassure myself that they are just more illusions conjured up by my deceitful mind. My fragile psyche, marred by years of resentment and unease, only functions as a reminder that trust is a luxury I will never be afforded. And then I feel hands clutch at my shoulders. Familiar ones. They catch me right before my knees buckle. Several more shapes move into view. People, three of them, and there seems to be a building to my left. A muted lamplight bleeds through the haze of white, faint and uncertain. I’m not sure if I believe this yet. My mind whispers that hope itself is just another vain hallucination.

I almost believe it, until I see him - ever recognizable, harrowing, beautiful - until I catch a glimpse of the tragically familiar features that have saved and destroyed me simultaneously, in a single instant. My deliverance and my ruin share the same face.

His.