My Backpack

My backpack contains nothing. And yet my shoulders are burdened by the weight of existence; talons tearing through flesh, ligament, and bag strap. The backpack contains nothing, and yet nothingness has become my curse as nothing seems to weigh more with each step. And with each step falling slightly heavier, each beat of my heart harder against my chest, and each breath taken becoming less and less efficient at drawing in the oxygen I needed to take each step and beat my dying heart.

Until enough is enough.

I stop, taking refuge on a bench, and rip the bag from my person; revealing the damage the talons had done as blood marred the warm and safe bench. I cannot relax as I open the bag, the zipper screaming as it is tugged on with slow, tired hands. And yet, as the bag lay open on the ground, freed from the burden of being the anchor I am forced to carry, I cannot bear to look at the nothing that was contained within the backpack. To look inside the backpack would be akin to looking at darkness; sheer and terrible darkness that manages to not only encompass every fear, doubt, anxiety, and suicidal thought that had ever crossed my plagued mind, but also managed to consume like a great, black tidal wave of great, gnashing death.

But, to not look inside the bag means putting it back on; allowing the talons to pierce back into already devastating wounds. So, as fear of death incarnate flowed through me like neurons in my body, I slowly peek inside the bag.

Empty.

I rummage through the bag. I check and double-check every crease but find nothing. Nothing for what seemed like eternity. Until I see the great, white light. I take it out the bag, marvelling at the beauty of hope I hold in my hands. I cradle hope, holding it to my chest as I sleep on my bench, allowing rest to curb my pain and exhaustion. And as I wake anew, hope sat within my heart, patient and smiling, spreading an almost divine warmth throughout my body with every heartbeat. I smile, a rarity, as now I had hope.

I fling the backpack across one shoulder, the backpack now a different kind of empty. I go home, abandoning my mission to see the sun rise over the sea from the bridge. I go home because, now I had hope, where else would I go?