A Possession
Jon paced in his bedroom. It was compulsion that pushed him to write, aching, agitated, in need of putting something on paper. At last, he sat down to write his letter. He did not know who he was writing to or if anyone other than himself would see it, but he wrote his yet-to-be-articulated thoughts as if announcing a confession.
With his pen on the paper, there was no stopping the flow of ink as he scribbled:
There was never a moment in my life when I could say with perfect honesty “I have walked the path of fire.” Yet that statement, too, lacks perfect honesty.
We know of them, the survivors of the dark valley. They are on our screens if not our everyday lives. They speak of their past experiences, their intense trials and tribulations crafted so precisely for them and them alone. Subjects of cruel abusers; those targeted by the most malicious killers and tormentors of the day; acquaintances of the reaper who met his eyes just once and were spared — these are the people I speak of.
They did it. I’m not sure how, but they did. They walked the fire path. From their pain, misery, and torment that often still gnaws at their sanity, they not only stood tall and firm but manifested works of undeniable value. Doesn’t the light appear most vividly to the one who lived in darkness? Their character on this stage of Earth had made the descent and rose from the depths to soar above the surface of life and reach a higher place where nobody else but themselves can reach.
Leaning back in his chair, Jon sighed deeply as if he had just released a heavy load, but he was not done yet. Allowing himself to be possessed once more, he continued:
But that is the issue: only themselves! I am aware that everyone has their path to walk, a path nobody else can tread. But can a tree which has only known mundane days bear the same fruits as the tree which has weathered the great storm and survived? Would the fruits be of the same flavor and quality? Nutrition and ripeness? Likewise, if I were to bear a fruit of my own, would it even compare to the ones which I have spoken of previously?
I have had a decent life, at least compared to the worst of lives. There has been no grand encounters with the most wicked devils in my admittedly limited experience, nor any uncomfortably close dealings with death of any sort. And yet, I have had a brush with something, though I do not know what it was exactly. A phantom, perhaps. It was as if I was walking down a hall only to brush shoulders with a ghost. The unseen, the uncanny, the mystical, it appeared to me all at once in that brush of the shoulders… But it was only a brush. It could be explained away as a result of my delusional enthusiasm getting the better of me, keeping me from dealing with the encounter rationally and with a clear head. Yet it still haunts me, looming over me like a star that shines slightly more brightly than the others.
Was this brush with the uncanny enough for me to be counted among the storm bearers, the fire walkers, the depth divers? Perhaps, perhaps not. Maybe I hope for too much. Still, when it comes to my own experience with reality behind the curtains, I feel as though my dealings are not concluded. I have more life to live, more chances to meet that phantom in the hall again. Will he speak to me next time?
Releasing his pen to let it roll on the desk, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose then looked out of the window, greeting a cloudy sky above the forest trees with his gaze. He felt as though he had gone through an exorcism, encapsulating the demon into the paper before him. However, another spirit would grip his mind tomorrow. There were more letters to write to his unknown recipient.
