I awoke at midnight from a nightmare monochrome world entirely drained of color, my identity violently stripped away by some unseen force. When I finally awoke from this overwhelming level of fright, I found myself gasping for air. After I finally found my breath, it occurred to me that this was not simply a nightmare but rather a reflection of my emotional truth, replayed nightly over decades. As I sat up recovering from this horrid experience, blood flow slowly returned to my brain. All the while, I found my bodily functions scrambling to keep me from slipping back into that bleak subconscious void.

Yet, confronting these surreal episodes proves difficult, as their logic defies conventional explanation.All I can say is that the more I ran from emotional and verbal abuse — and occasionally physical, ironically, each escape made me more distinctively “other.”For years, I kept being trapped by expectations and misguided intentions no matter where I went, which time and again forced me back into projecting some bland model of conformity.

The worst part of all this is most of those who perpetuated these abusive acts didn’t recognize the horrible results of their actions.Indeed, the cruelty I face often wears a mask of ignorance, delivered by those blind to their harm or willfully indifferent to the pain they cause. Their ignorance was potent, their bigotry precise, painting me into corners from which escape was only temporary, leaving me perpetually shedding past baggage, forever longing to reveal my authentic self. Yet, each attempt to assert my identity came at a steep cost. It ultimately became thatI needed to start over, casting off the baggage of my past and pressing forward with the singular aim of freeing my true self.

This lingering bitterness threatens to define me as permanently melancholic, condemned to exist on the periphery of joy or even quiet contentment. But surrendering to melancholy would be unjust, especially after all those years of quiet defiance keeping my inner flame alive just to find my opportunity to split. Now that it’s come and I’m in a safe, secure space in my life now, though, I still feel I’ve deteriorated past the point of usefulness.

But it’s unfair to cast judgment on the eventual outcome of my greatly deteriorated state. At the very least, I find it impossible to return to any sort of restful state before a lazy winter sun rises for just a brief time over the chilled Northeastern landscape. Despite the days supposedly growing longer as I write this, I see the sun for only a few hours up in the sky, only to watch it duck down below the horizon before shedding much light and heat upon the wanting souls already desperate for the coming of springtime. Alas, more than two full cycles of the moon must pass before being able to realize the inevitable, yet elusive, promise of a world once again inviting rebirth and a sunnier outlook.

During these sleepless nights, my restless mind battles with uncertainties, forcibly examining possibilities and paths yet unexplored. Yet, paradoxically, it’s within this uncertainty that I recognize my greatest strength, the courage to transform uncertainty into opportunity. The spice of life has often come to me in the form of such great uncertainties needing to be explored, then tamed into a much-needed diluted form which could be readily broken down into salient options.

Unfortunately, as I reach the latter half of my third decade perfecting my art of communication through prose, I feel unsure whether I am still living out my second act. At times I feel as if being suddenly thrust into my third act. Are my adventures upon this spinning globe wrapping up before I’m ready? Is it now time for me to tie up loose plot threads and accept my retirement into the sunset? Or must I look forward to my inevitable bow into the obscurity of the darkest night?

Are these nights plagued by insomnia but a grim preview of my third act? Or is it instead a crossroads, signaling that my life’s most significant chapter is not behind me, but ahead, still waiting to unfold? Truthfully, I know that my story remains unfinished, my greatest achievements quite likely yet unwritten. Though shadows of pessimism cloud my view, they have yet to fully obscure my capacity for hope, my conviction that life’s pivotal moments are yet to come. Despite material comfort and cherished love, fulfillment still eludes me—recognition not of vanity but validation of purpose.

Perhaps these introspective musings are merely prelude, quiet preparations for a narrative rebirth, awaiting only the easing of current limitations.Of course, all our days are numbered, and we can never predict the exact day on which we will draw our final breath. Whether this is truly my final act or not, I must treat each moment as if it is so. I press on, hoping that these days are leading up to a second climax before a much more glorious wrap-up. Regardless of when my own time is to come, I must continue to let the spirits flow and the inevitable pouring of the sweet wine of thoughtful prose to carry me along.

As I wake up from the throes of these recurring nightmares, I realize now that all I need to overcome these nightly misadventures is a strongly intentional purpose. It seems my greatest task now is to use these moments of weakness to dig deeper for new strength. So, I resolve to treat each fleeting thought as vital, each word as necessary testimony of my search for deeper meaning. The future is truly an undiscovered country, and I must embrace that frightening but necessary inevitably rather than fear it.

I must wield my pen to strike at the heart of my demons and lay them bare. These words I write give me a chance to triumph and record these little victories as much as the failures. One day I will find myself choked by the blissfully ignorant passage of Time, the most invaluable resource we have and one I will no longer bear to waste away.

~ Amelia Desertsong