She stumbled through the fog, unable to see anything before her. The haze all around her was overwhelming; she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face, let alone anything that might be hiding out there. Her throat felt raw from her gasping breaths, and she felt dampness on her face that she wasn’t sure was tears or mist. She took another staggering step forward. Her muscles burned, and each step felt heavier than the last. She didn’t know how long she had been running, but she could feel the strain on her body, could feel the oppressive fog pushing against her. Her foot caught on an unseen obstacle, and she fell, scraping her hands against stone…
She lay still, eyes closed, and felt her chest expand and contract with each labored breath. She couldn’t keep going like this. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where she was going. At this point, she forgot where she had come from. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to do. She was trapped in the fog, trapped in this place where there was no meaning, no beginning, no end, only the middle, the constant, the unchanging. She was stuck between worlds, and she felt her body slacken as she accepted her new reality. There was nothing she could do. This spot, on the hard stone, in the middle of whatever fog was around her, is where she would always be. Where she was meant to be. She gave up.
She felt a slight breeze on her cheek, as if someone ran their fingers across her skin. Her eyes snapped open, and she raised her head, looking around. She blinked rapidly. Was the fog lifting in front of her? Was there a way out? She struggled to her feet, feeling each pull of sore muscle, and forced one foot in front of the other, walking through the diminishing fog. She walked for what felt like minutes (or hours?), until suddenly the mist in front of her was gone, and she blinked in the gloomy light. Fog still surrounded her, but she was in a clearing of sorts, and before her, climbing high into the sky, was a tower. It seemed to break through the fog, rising high above it, because she couldn’t see the top.
She walked on, approaching the tower. It looked ancient, like it had been there since time began. The stones were dark gray, roughened by age and constant dampness. She reached out, and ran her hand against the stone, feeling the puckered surface. She heard a deep rumble, and gasped, whipping her hand back as the rock wall before her started to shift. She watched, immobile, as the solid stone before her moved until an archway appeared. The rumbling stopped, and yet she still stood, staring into the dim room before her. She glanced back, at the fog encircling her. She could go back there, try to find her way out, but she knew deep down that there was no way out of that fog. Not for her, not like this.
She looked back at the archway, and took a tentative step forward. She ducked through the arch, and she felt something change. It was just as quiet as out in the fog, but she felt a difference. There was something in this tower, an energy that she could feel coiled around her. She saw nothing at first in the gloom, just more stone, until she realized that there were stairs, twisting their way up the tower. She took a deep breath, and then started up the stairs, her legs aching with each step. She didn’t know where she was going, what was waiting for her at the top of the tower, but she knew (hoped?) that is was better than the fog she left behind her.
She climbed and climbed, for how long she didn’t know. As she continued up, up, up, she noticed that the stone walls were growing lighter in color, and less rough. Like they were newer. And suddenly, there were no stairs before her, only a circular room, paved with smooth, cream colored stone. The room looked like an old-fashioned study, with tall shelves full of books lining the walls, and a large desk in the middle of the room, with paper, pens, and a ball of yarn sitting on its surface.
“What is this place?” she whispered, running her fingers along the spines of the books.
This is a sanctuary. She felt goosebumps erupt across her skin as the words echoed around her, as if seeping out of the walls themselves. This is a place away from the world, a place for thoughts, ideas, meanings, to be found, examined, explored. The papers on the desk ruffled, as if someone had run a ghostly hand over them. It is a place of expression, a place for the mind to work, unencumbered by the world.
“Why am I here?” she asked, the quiver in her voice all too clear.
You are not the first, nor will you be the last, who needs to get away from the world in order to engage with it. The tower around her creaked, almost as if it was sighing. The world is not kind to the sensitive, to the thinkers, to those who want to see kindness and good and hope in the world. She felt a presence behind her, and spun around, but saw nothing.
“What do you want with me? I’m no one.” She sagged against the desk, exhausted.
Nothing. I want nothing from you, the tower said. She felt like she had been punched in the stomach. She knew it. She knew there was nothing left of her, nothing to give anyone, nothing to even be asked of her. But you want something from yourself, the tower whispered. You would not have found this place otherwise. You, like those before you and those after you, are here to work, to create, to speak to the world in the way it needs to hear. You are here to make connections, to discover new ways of thinking, to communicate and share and bring things together. This tower is built by years of people telling stories, of people thinking, of people placing one block after another in order to build something larger than themselves.
“So,” she said quietly, “I’m here to… to write? To tell stories?” She paused. “To be myself?” She felt hope flicker in her chest. She could stay here forever, out of the fog, out of the fear and confusion that surrounded her. She could stay safe, protected from the world that took so much from her.
Yes, the tower murmured. You can write, you can create, you can craft your story, your words, your message. But be forewarned, the tower around her suddenly shook, knocking books off the shelves, sending pens flying off the desk, and she fell to the ground. She felt electricity sizzle across her skin, and realized the tower had been hit by lightning when thunder boomed around her. This will require great change in yourself, and you will not be able to stay here forever. Change is a part of life, and you cannot hide from it. Here you may work, but eventually that work must be shared, and you cannot do that from here. This is a way-point for you, a place between who you were and who you are going to be. Do you accept these conditions?
She looked around the room, thinking. Could she do this? Did she have anything left to work with, anything inside of her she could offer to the world? She thought about the place beyond the mist for the first time in a long while. She knew there were things out there that mattered to her, people and places and experiences that made life worthwhile. Things she wanted back, and things she wanted to say. If working in this tower, away from it all, could help her reach that place again, even just that place inside herself that she hoped (or knew?) was still there, she would try.
“Yes,” she said to the tower. “I will work here, and I will take my work, my thoughts, my ideas, my connections and stories, back out into the world.” She walked over to a closed shutter, and threw it open.
Brilliant white light filled the room, and she heard the tower say, with what sounded like a smile in its voice, welcome to The Lightning Tower.
© The Lightning Tower, 2020