The dark tunnel

	This is an essay I wrote ages ago that sums up my 
personal existence.  It holds special meaning for me, 
but most people would not understand its importance.  
That is fine with me.

	I live in a room painted white.  The only 
adornments are dark spots on the walls, my inadequacies.  
The only exit from my room is a dark tunnel.  It is the 
darkness that I fear.
	Years ago, the bulbs that shone their simple light 
in that tunnel broke, one by one.  With their dying 
light, my escape also faded, until the last bulb ceased 
to glow and my solitude solidified.
	I am still in that room, my only reminder of the 
past those dark splotches on the walls.  Each blemish is 
like a cicatrice of battles fought and lost long ago. 
They coldly stare at me, slowly growing, blocking the 
only light I know, the light of my own mind.
	My room stretches infinitely.  I move about it 
freely, but never truly free.  Sometimes I walk, 
sometimes I run, but mostly I sit in the middle, alone. 
Whenever I move, I find new spots, new failures.  There 
is no end to my self-affliction.  And whatever I do, 
wherever I go, the tunnel follows me, mocking me, 
shrouding my escape in the darkness I have assigned it.
	Many times through the years, I have seen a light 
at the end of the tunnel, a beautiful light, far 
outshining the dwindling brilliance of my own.  There is 
always a voice accompanying that light, calling to me. 
These are the people who have tried to reach me.
	I have often stepped into the darkness, vainly 
searching for escape, for understanding. Unfortunately, 
those who call to me are also afraid to set foot in the 
tunnel, and after a few steps, I find it impossible to 
move on, and retreat to my own dim prison.
	Now, suddenly, I find myself staring at a new 
light, so unlike the others.  It is more familiar, more 
like my own.  Along with this light, I hear not a voice 
as with the others, but footsteps, simple and plain.  
They come closer, then pause, and after a moment, one of 
the old bulbs that once lit the tunnel has been replaced 
by a new one, now casting its light on the darkness that 
I feared.
	In a heartbeat, the emotions that I long ago 
suppressed have resurfaced.  I am seeing what I once 
knew, a lighted tunnel that is easily traveled.  But 
still I am afraid.  I fear that the person replacing 
those lights also controls their switch.  I am afraid 
that if I step deep into the tunnel, those lights may 
once again go dark, leaving me with no escape.
	This is where I find myself, my catch-22.  I am 
terrified of reaching out, yet more afraid of someone 
reaching out to me, and then abandoning me.  And so I 
stay in my little white room, as the lights continually 
dim, and I find myself with nothing left to do but sleep 
and dream of the light at the end of the tunnel.