A Whispering Demon
and One Whispered Calling
She’s uncertain as to what or who it is she’s currently
attempting to have an intimate conversation with
in that extreme moment of despair.
She used to call it God, as many typically would.
In the core of her being is a belief in a higher power — something,
someone, or some being that cannot be fully comprehended and intellectualized; something whose validated existence
merely relies on a deep sense of faith.
Surprisingly, she does have that.
What she does not have is a consistent
acknowledgement and connection with that faith.
For so long, she has skewed from her own spiritual path.
More and more days pass by in which she’s no longer
recognizing a solid sense of self or a direction to follow.
She’s back to being who she used to be — someone who’s utterly lost in life.
Countless are the times that she falls back deeper into a place where light remains unseen — a place where she keeps herself punished and hidden.
The heaviness that chains her soul into that shadowed prison
comes from the very things she knows and constantly feels.
Too much guilt, doubt, and sorrow reside within her.
She knows for a fact that the countless years of hatred, pity, and
resentment she’s been hoarding towards herself root from
the very things she knows she should do but feels incapable of.
Few are the days that she feels courageous and hopeful enough
that she can do the bare minimum and pick herself up.
Countless are the times that she shed tears, begging for the voices in her head to stop with the persistent questioning of why she’s still alive.
She rests helpless in the belief that she’s incapable of rescuing
the part of herself that’s been silently screaming to be saved.
She has secretly started to abandon herself
and masked it as an act of saving.
She felt deeply the heavy irony that most of the life she has lived
has been mere contemplations of her own passing.
She imagined her death countless more times than the sole
few moments that she felt she could live a normal life.
She grieved for her own funeral countless times,
and grieved more with those who would grieve for her.
She remained stuck in an excruciating tug-of-war between
two equally painful endeavors that defined her entire existence.
Endure to live or purposefully die?
It was a kind of existential torture.
It was a hefty decision that she could never make.
Yet both her graves continued to await her.
And from there silently sprouted a different kind of voice.
For what’s buried in those pits of hell is a calling,
waiting for its rebirth and redemption,
desperately waiting
to come alive.
