My Candle

Here there were no tears. 
They were bottled up inside. 
I sat in my dark room, alone, as always. 
I'd stayed there for so long that my eyes had almost become accustomed to the gloom.
Outside, a street-light glowed dimly.
But, back then, so did the sun.
 
I looked round the room, practically blinded by my pain. 
I, the so-called attention seeker, saw something white on the ground.
Paper, a blank canvas. 
How, I wish that with my life I could wipe the slate clean. 
The clean white paper haunted me. 
There was a black pen too, almost invisible in the dark.
But, not quite. 

I picked it up, tensing my hand, willing the pen to break.
It held. 
I looked down at the white paper.
I hadn't drawn anything since I was tiny.
I wasn't good enough, I told myself.

I picked up the pen and slowly...
I formed curved lines, straight lines, boxes and circles.
The lines, made a drawing.
The bright white paper in the dark.
Now, there was a village. 

After that, 
People flying through space.
Dragons breathing fire.
People living normal lives.
Everything the reality wasn't,
this sheet and many other sheets of paper became. 

The darkness drew round me, 
but I didn't feel it. 
I was too busy carefully manufacturing my own imaginary world. 
For a while, at least, the creature of darkness had been slain.