text: Part I It was hard to tell if I was awoken by an outside force or the existence of my own anxiety. Nevertheless, my eyes open to a surrounding that only some would be able to dream about. My indistinguishable being was fragile as I attempted to discern the walls around me. I crawled through what I could, but my success was faltered at every turn. I was inches away from my future, but miles away from my past. One of the refractories knelt itself into my hand and I was faced with a choice. I didn’t know what choice I was to make yet, so I allowed my body to feel first: emotions, but with limitations. In my hand, the object shook, but it wasn’t the fault of the object. Hot air wrapped itself around it, providing warmth and the shifting ground below. It was only one of the memories of what seemed like trillions, but the same preservation was shared. All around, the warmth of my surroundings was illuminated by a circumference of light, which was shed for all to share. Rainbows danced in tandem as the protrusions of the object were traced along the crevices of my palm. One short Oh, another the same length Two the same length Oh, another two! A pointy top A solid base. The corners were given the shared color and my hand illuminated with clarity. The object was placed back into its spot, and I grasped for another a few places over and around three above. I was to choose wisely for another. I knew I wanted the same feeling, different perspective. There was one object not illuminated and I reached for it without question. There were cracks in the corners and scratches up and down the base. It hurt to hold it in my hands, but I knew that it was one that needed attention, so I didn’t put it back quite yet. My knees felt sprained, but I did not let it take me away from my goal: I must face my past memories in order to get out of this cave I’ve dug myself into. Setting it beside me, my hands felt free and liberating, but not with good cause. I decided to come back in due time, once I’ve dealt with others that didn’t feel as strong. I felt the pain in my knees again and it brought a sting to my eyes. The floor below me began to shake and crumble as the memory tumbled around my helpless body. I scooped it up again in attempt to process it, hoping the cracks could be mended and the scratches could be healed. Escaping into the effervescent light, I was able to recall the day. This is the one that brought me here . I held it against my bouncing chest. It must be processed now. Part II A piercing buzz fills my ears and the room around me flashes crimson. I awake to find myself on the ground, the tile below me cold and sharp with broken edges. The flashing stops immediately, and the buzzing is replaced with a clack of heels coming toward my direction. My eyes blur because I lost my glasses long ago, but I am able to make out a ball of white that grows larger until it surrounds my entire being. Once it is near, I am able to make out that it is someone wearing a lab coat. “Take a seat on the couch,” they instruct, their voice surprisingly calm and reassuring. I am able to stand with the help of their hand encased in a rubber glove. My knees wobble, but I make careful strides over to a grey blob that I can make out in the distance that gets clearer the closer I get. I take a seat, but it doesn’t feel like a couch at all. “That’s the coffee table,” I am told. “The couch is behind it.” The person in the lab coat guides me to where the couch is and helps me down. I rest my head on the arm rest and close my eyes because I grow tired of the blur. “Where are my glasses?” My voice is paper thin. “You will get them back when we are through.” Their voice fills the room. It feels like rainbows and unicorns. I press myself deeper into the sofa as I attempt to grant myself comfort. “Tell me about the incident.” A flood of pain washes over me. I know exactly what they are talking about. “I-I can’t” “If you can’t talk about it, let’s process it. You must process this memory in order to venture forth.” The therapist clears their throat and taps their pen against the clipboard in rhythmic time. “As I tap my pen, recall the memory as it occurred and tell me what you see.” Part III The voice of my therapist becomes null and void as I find myself in yet another room: this time, it’s pitch black. The pen tapping continues as an echoing void, but without diction and without tongue. This is how I am guided through the hole I have found myself in, scrambling for any source of light. In a hall of sensorial deprivation, it can be easy to get lost in the scam of nothingness. “Find a source of light and you will get your glasses back.” This time, my instructions are comprehendible and by a human. My choice of fight or flight becomes one as my feet escape from under me. I trip, falling against a wall. “Do the stars I am seeing right now count as a source of light?” I find my glasses back on my face and the room turns into a sharper pitch of darkness. “That is a great start. It tells me you are trying.” The voice tells me to find another light source, so I feel around this time with more careful consideration. My hands become the vessel to create change as I feel for ways, I am able to help myself heal. On my hands and knees now, I slap the ground with more tenacity than my body was able to shed. Nevertheless, I find another light source. “I think I’ve found a lighter.” I feel around for the spark wheel and flick it against the rawness of my fingertips. After a few tries with sparks but no fire, I assume the lighter is out of fluid. “Try something else.” The voice calls. “That was not meant for you.” The voice startles me, but I keep venturing forth. Find something meant for me. My body summons me to walk against the barren ground in hopes something will come up that is meant to be mine. Even though I don’t know how large my surroundings are, I estimate and take chances. I count my steps so that I am not far from home. One Two Three Four-- A sharp pain is sent up my foot after stepping on a small, hard object. Quickly, I kneel down to grab it. “Is it a lightbulb?” I feel around its surface with my seeing hands. “Try again,” my therapist beckons. In that moment I had realized what a fool I’d been looking for sources of light that were not mine. Of course, it was a prism! A prism is what got me into the hole in the first place. “It’s a prism” “Ahhhh” I am back on the couch now. The room I am in is a laboratory dressed in gobs of silver. My therapist is a human, but with no discernable gender. “Are you ready to process now?” I steady the prism in my hands. The very object that will help me store, process, retrieve, and make my memories. “Let’s do it.”