HOPE: The submarine of deepest seas

Look at me now.

I’m lying in my bed, in my dusty bedroom, in my sweaty t-shirt.

It’s 2:00 am. I am contemplating about the past and the future,

My mind is swimming through depths of ocean of thoughts.

The depths where you cannot see, depths you cannot describe, not even I can.

The eerie tones are fading away,

The music is brutal, evil clashing with despair,

I hear shouts in the distance.

But they do not distract me; for I am not who they are calling; no one is calling me.

Am I a refugee? In the middle of wasted nowhere, yet not missed by far?

Or am I a soul that is wished for by many, only their voices are even further, beyond hearing?

A refugee it shall be, for that is how I feel.

I cannot breathe,

However it’s not sickness’ fault;

Neither the weight of my laptop pressing on my stomach,

The anxiety rooted deep in me is to be blamed.

Now there’s something changed, oh wait, do you hear it?

The tones fade no more; now they shatter in my earlobes.

The ocean’s waves are crashing upon sand,

But how can I hear, when I’m so deep, so far away?

The voices are gone.

But not for too long.

Am I paranoid?

Is there something wrong?

Yes, there is. The constant crashing is gone,

Now there are dramatic violins.

The dark blue and black waters change suddenly.

A crimson, wildly aggressive red is slashing through the nothing.

A submarine, carrying the treasure of utmost importance is the maker of this deadly light.

It’s the red flashing light on the upper red side.

I can see it, though I cannot draw it, for the image would be to dark-

Like an ambulance strolling trough the city of night,

The mirror turns and the light goes for another roundabout.

The floor is not far below.

There is no chance the tip of the submarine would turn out of floor’s way.

Dramatic music ceases, giving way to much slower sounds; the ones of tribal drums, church bells and cellos.

Submarine hits the floor.

But the floor is not of sand.

It’s a floor of chessboard.

I can see it, yes.

The colours change again;

With a brink,

Yellow and orange, in their most damaging and aggressive forms burn their image into the eye.

Not into the other eye, that one’s blind. Covered with a pirate patch,

The eye is a window to the soul, yet it’s patched.

What could that possibly mean?

Explosion throws the stones of black and white everywhere around,

There is no more chessboard.

It is merely a warzone.

And even its message to us is the same.

For warzone is a place of despair,

And for the submarine carried the treasure of utmost importance.

Hope, that is.