Eigengrau

When offspring are sired into the unfortunate reality, they unleash a mighty wail that signals their presence, as well as their immediate displeasure regarding their circumstances. The screams travel through the ears of the practitioner, telling them that their efforts are not in vain. The screams bounce off the walls of the structure, telling everyone that new life has just been born. The screams echo in the attentive halls of the parents’ ears, bestowing relief. Their child is here. Their child is safe. Their child will live. For now.

As the child’s limbs grow longer and their mind becomes more developed, the form of their screams earns a similar progression. Instead of crying for attention, they release “goos” and “gahs” to show infantile affection. They perform a rhythmic repetition of the same loud sound to convey joy. They mold their screams into words, conduits of meaning and clearer communication. The child can finally hold a conversation with their parent, no matter how lacking it may be. They can finally ask for things that appeal to them, much to the parents’ dismay. They can lower the volume to be conspiratorial. They can raise their voice to make their underdeveloped and irrational opinions known. They can do so much, but realize the impact that very first scream has.

To scream for the first time is to light a candle and let it burn. Over time, the candle’s heat will keep radiating against the wax, melting it. The melted wax pools at the bottom of the candle, waiting for the moment when the wick reaches it. And when that wick draws near to the disaster of its own design, it succumbs, drowning in the pool of its previous flourishing. Screams function similarly. The moment one is unleashed, it carries through the hall, growing weaker until its energy is gone for good.

There is one difference between candles and screams, however.

You can snuff out a candle for it meets its regular demise.

When you write a book, you still find your topic and construct an outline, but the meat you have to provide becomes much larger than that of an essay. Additionally, your meat has to be seasoned. Because of the larger amount of content, your diction and syntax have to be appealing to the eyes. Otherwise, readers become bored with your stagnant structure. This also means the amount of polishing you have to do increases.

Needless to say, writing a book is a much more strenuous activity than writing an essay.

It requires much more paper.

It requires much more time.

It requires much more sanity.

It requires much more focus.

I don't mind my mother taking issue with the, evidently, new waitress. She has always been an emotional woman, prone to her driven words rather than he collected mind, yet she always made sure to talk about people when they weren't there. But I still don't appreciate silently harping at a tired waitress over every little thing.

I don't mind my younger sister being buried in her phone. She has always found it difficult to connect with others, and now that she has a medium to make friends, I could not feel more relieved. But I don't understand why I had to be the focal piece to your online buddies, or why you couldn't put your phone down when I tried to talk to you.

I don't mind my younger brother distancing himself from the family to play a game. He has always been competitive by nature, and rarely did he take a break from that game for anything other than his own interests. But I cannot fathom why he had to constantly unleash diabolically-smelling gaseous clouds and glance over with that devilish grin of his.

I don't mind that my family only talked to me when it was about what I was ordering. I don't even treat this day as anything special. I've lost most enthusiasm for it and have to rely on my peers to gain that excitement. For all that it's worth, it felt warming that my family took the time out of their days to spend it with me. It felt nice.

But it also felt hollow.

I don't mind that my family treated me like I was invisible on my own birthday. I was the one who suggested we all go out to eat together, even though I'm the person who doesn't feel the need to celebrate my birthday. Even though I am not great at having conversations. I suppose I didn't want to feel alone.

I know I probably should not be surprised by these anymore, but it still shocks me how my silly little words have earned the attention of such a large variety of people.

But light travels. Darkness sits still. You wanted to venture further. To drown into the darkest points of the universe. It was there that I saw your light warped into something more twisted. Much like how it takes seven minutes for the Sun’s light to reach Earth, eventually your rays of starlight dimmed. Eventually you vanished. You strove to pull me in deeper into that dense pit of umbra, but I refused.

I failed to recognize how much your vile gravity affected me. And now that I saw how much of a fool I was, I only have one last thing to ask you.