Tristan Robert Lange

Through a Window Darkly

Staring out this window, I feel lost in the dismal day that is clouding my soul. No matter what I do, no matter how I act, no matter what I say, no matter how hard I try—it never seems enough. The ashen skies flurry down through my eyes and dampen the chill air within me. My soul begins to prattle through me like a death rattle, reminding me of all the times I’ve tried, fallen and failed. Will this time be any different?

The sky is charcoal

On this cold mid-autumn day,

Yet, the rain won’t fall.

“Keep a positive outlook,” they keep telling me. They. Who are they? Why do they keep talking to me, as if they can possibly know who I am, what I’ve been through, what I’ve had to overcome—the dark dungeon of my mind that holds me and will never let me go. I scream, but only silence echoes out. I speak, but my words never match what I am truly feeling. The mask I wear is hardwired to the speaker in my throat. I am an emotional cyborg. I look strong on the outside, thick as titanium—inside I am nothing more than decomposing flesh and putrid blood.

Leaves rustle in wind,

Which wisps and whirls with fury

Outside the window.

I keep staring out this window, these thoughts are ghosts that haunt my everlasting days and trouble my nights. Within me, the phantom winds roar and howl as everything within me clenches at the feeling of nails on chalkboards screeching through me. The goosebumps are perpetual. How will I ever amount to more when I am constantly stuck at less? I pray, and pray, and pray for an answer, for some relief. Heaven is silent while voices call to me from hell. Is this my purpose? To suffer in silence in an oblivious world, a world that cannot see me, but can only see the mask I am forced to wear? A world that, truthfully, could not care? My thoughts wander past the tree in my yard.

Squirrels race on by,

Scurrying with their li’l nuts

To bury them deep.