Written While Trying to Rekindle my Passion for Writing

Relighting the Fire

1,800 words
Written between one and two A.M.

____________________________________

     Something nobody expected to happen was him losing his passion. It was his passion that had singlehandedly kept him alive for so long, and had brought him some of the only positive attention he had ever received. It was what he had built his identity around after having all autonomy stripped away in childhood, it was the only part of himself he ever felt proud of, and still, somehow, he lost it. The fire went out, and he felt himself die, with it.

    From that moment on, he wasn't the same. Nothing was. He didn't have an outlet to channel things into, he no longer did the things that brought him joy, and the world around him only brought him more and more fear- fear that he couldn't tell was there, as he had grown out of touch with his emotions. The numbness he now felt wasn't new to him- quite the contrary, in fact. He had felt this numbness as long as he could remember. It had always been there, an overwhelming force of uncertainty, the sheer size of which gave way to this feeling of hopelessness, but not true feeling. It was apathy. Apathy, and wanting to care, and numb, and sadness, and hurt, and a thousand feelings that buzzed in his brain, all of which had mashed together to create this hellish, awful numbness. They bled together, becoming empty amalgamations of what once could be considered feelings, but now were just far-off, uncertain, unclear emotions that couldn't be deciphered from one another. And since he couldn't tell one from the other, he couldn't know what he was feeling- only if it was good, bad, or okay.  And when it was just okay, it was nothing. Not good. Not bad. Just nothing. That's how he felt for the longest time.

     When he found his passion, he used it as an outlet, and he finally was able to find the differences between his emotions, they started to separate and be felt again. It was hope. It was his life source.

     And then, he lost it. He got busy, his schedule wouldn't give him a day to pursue what he loved, he was always exhausted, and he found himself losing his ability to be happy. Slowly but surely, the emotions mixed into one again, and the numbness crept up on him like a starving lion on a tired little zebra. And finally, it pounced. It sank its teeth into him quickly, dragging him into the uncaring void in which he had spent far too long. And he stayed there, silently, hopelessly, waiting for the lion to return and finish the job, waiting for the lion to finally set him free.

     But the lion never retuned. He was never allowed to escape- no, he thought, obviously, that would be too easy. Whatever omnipotent force was up there, if there even was one, wouldn't be kind enough to take pity on him. That would be too kind for such a god. He was sure of it.

     And so, slowly but surely, he found his footing once more, driven at first by his hatred of this cave in which he had been confined, and later, when the mouth of the cave began to come into sight, by the desire to go back. As this desire grew, the echoes of the timid steps he had started with became rapid, heavy. He was running- no, sprinting to the entrance he had been dragged through. He wanted this. He wanted to be back where he was before. He wante. to create once more, to communicate, to be free to do as he always wanted. To find his passion. To rekindle it. To feel something. To feel happy. But, as he came upon the entrance, his sprint returned to a walk, and slowed to a crawl. He had been in this hole so long, he had grown accustomed to it. This cave, this cavern of numbness and confusion and depression had almost become a comfort. It was a constant. It was familiar. And he was afraid of what might await him once he left.

     Besides, where would be even start? Did he even know how to get out? Did he even remember the steps he would need to take to get back to where he had been? And would he even be as good? Would it even be worth it? Would he leave the cave, only to find he had forgotten how to do what he loved while in there? And if he did, would the lion pounce once more? Would he be caught in a self-hating loop in which he would try to do what he loved, only to find his work less and less what he wanted it to be?