The Arc

So, there was this guy. For most of his life he bounced from thing to thing like a pinball whacked by bumpers and paddles. His journey between whacks he lived in darkness and dread. Through all that dark situational bouncing, though, he held onto something that he couldn't quite put into words, but that held power over him nonetheless. Whatever he did failed to further reveal or get him closer to that thing, that hot core of energy that wanted out. He realized it could only get out through him and his work, but a certain kind of work, work that tapped into a love for something, work that served something bigger than himself. It was a kind of paradox: he would find himself by giving himself away. And the things he most feared would be the same things that would set him free. Surprisingly, he would find what he sought in the place he most wanted to avoid. And what he would find would be peace. The locked doors of his mind became the high fences of razor wire; the gates guarding his unhappiness became the electric sally ports between the outside and in. His days in darkness prepared him for what was coming, made him immune to the snakes and poison of violence and fear, most of the time anyway. But it was the words, the words, that began to flow, that filled the dry voids left by his anger. He found solace and joy learning to listen, learning to invite. And there was something with him that had always been there, but to which he was blind. He let himself go, let himself be consumed by the flames, the ones that climbed high enough to burn through the walls he had built to keep him from his pain, his love.