The Tenth Hour

Upon a night of silence and sorrow, 'tis just I, and I alone, standing before the warmness of the fire. The colors of autumn burn into my fragmented soul, and yet, they can hardly slice through the blackness that engulfs my surroundings. Beyond these timber walls, a storm ravishes through the countryside, much like the one of which lives within myself. Every part of me is consumed with emotions. Every thought is composed of questions that I fear will never have light shed upon them.

The boards beneath my soles groan as they give way to my weight as I pace before the warmness of the fire. The timber walls moan as the winds mockingly dance in my presence. Free, spirited, and merry; three things I do not feel.

I hope for the 'morrow, as each night is brooding and agonizing. Once Apollo's gracious light dips behind the tangled mass of foliage, and the hand strikes the tenth hour, the feelings and thoughts within thrash about, attempting to claw their way out. But I keep them there. I keep them close, and with that, I suffer.

My thoughts are paused for a slight moment, for I am most certain I hear the hushed whispers of the people who have watched me on the train. I remember their gazes, piercing and intense. I hear their muttering voices, absurd and arrogant. They speak amongst themselves, murmuring words that I find degrading. Each night I fail to push their punishing looks and words away, and each night they attack my chaotic mind, seeking ways into my most important thoughts, tormenting me for hours upon end.

I am odd.

I am strange.

I am myself.

And yet, why must I be punished with this pain?

Spinning on my feet, I stalk towards the velvety chair. Reaching my hand out to touch it's soft and luscious material, I place myself gingerly upon the cushion. The embers beneath the charred wood softly glows, and I can feel the warmth of the flames heating my cheeks. Gazing into that fire, I feel my brows furrow. The wheels in my mind once again turning, turning, turning. Throwing my hands to my scalp, I grasp my hair. Those wheels, they simply can't stop! Pulling at my tie, I loosen it from my collar and dump it onto the table beside my cushioned seat. I lean into the back of the chair, praying it'd swallow me whole.

Why do I do this to myself?

What is the point of all this?

Resting my elbow on the armrest, I let my hand support my skull. Gazing into that fire, I watch the flames dance, twist, and flicker. It's madness. That's what fire is, complete and utter madness--and yet, so undeniably beautiful.

And then I realize, I do this because I feel the need to. I do this because I want to.

I do this to create new worlds, to give the people a place where they can feel safe, to give them friendships more real than what can be found in life itself. That is the point of this. That is the reason why I suffer, but also the reason why I find this work so rewarding.

My mind is a muddled mess of random ramblings, and that is how I like it. It drives me completely mad, yes. But I was meant to handle the madness, for I was placed on the Earth for the purpose of entertainment. I was placed on this Earth to spill my thoughts and emotions, to speak the truths I'm far to timid to speak aloud. I do this knowing that not all will fancy my work, but it's enough satisfaction knowing at least one will.

Finally, I feel the corners of my lips twitch up into a faint smile.

Contentment.

Rising from the plush chair, I pluck the poker from its stand and take a stamp forward, dipping it into the flames and spreading the charred logs apart. I watch as the fire begins to die down, and reaching for the small pot of sand, I dump it onto the remaining flames, snuffing out the madness till the next night. ~