The Rustic Cottage - A Journey of Self-Acceptance: A Reverie

A journey of self-acceptance.

I kept running. It was all misty in front of me and the future seemed uncertain. Direction seemed uncertain. 

"Where am I going?", was a question maps and signboards could no longer answer. I wrestled in inner turmoil seeking a clear route, but my map of the self lay incomplete, with blank white spots almost everywhere. After timeless running, the fog cleared a bit to show me a rustic cottage that lay forth. 

I was pulled to it.

The dense fog around me hid everything but the darkness. On the windowsill of the cottage's cracked window lay an old lamp. The light from the candle within shone hope in me, yet it flickered too. A force seemed to pull my hand away from my body to the doorknob. A hazy grey shadow of my body fell on the withered scrubs beside. 

I knew it was there, yet pretended it wasn't. I resisted every thought that arose in me, to even give a fleeting glance. 

And my hand stopped, just an inch away from the knob. 

It.. it... was decorated in... rust. And dried climbers, devoid of life, adorned it. It looked like a damaged mannequin's necklace. I hesitated. Not at the sight, but at what lay ahead. I stood frozen. Not because of the ice-biting winds that were playing turns to get hold of me. But because of the ice, the cold that lay within, within me. 

Minutes transitioned in hours, or perhaps more, I don't know. I stood a statue. Suddenly, a force from within or maybe with-out pulled me. And my cold fingers touched the knob. 

A vision. A vision stormed my mortal eyes. And the mind. It was shadowy for I could only see clouds among shadows. I forgot myself. I became an empty vessel unconsciously ready to take in whatever lay ahead in the distance. In the wilderness of the seemingly silent rustic cottage, not any place abound in the richness of the evergreen flora.

The door pulled itself to open, I didn't. I stepped inside to only feel an overpowering presence. Someone was watching me. The door shut rather loudly and evoked flashing terror in the depths of my heart, such that I could feel the ocean of blood within shiver; the body's raw premonition of nearing whirlpools and relentless surges in the tide. The door had closed. It had shut the world of earthly delusions and illusions behind me. 

"Was I to confront the supernatural? Or something that formed the very essence of...".

The smell of drenched teak and an overwhelming incense made me feel dizzy. The incense reminded me of something familiar yet uncertain. Something, or rather someone, I had always known, but chosen to overlook. As I walked with measured steps the wooden floorboard creaked. Perhaps its creaks were omens, "You are moving toward your peril, digging your own grave." Perhaps they were unusual harbingers, pulling me toward a vague discovery, in the shadows. As I moved forward, or rather being directed forward, I could listen to the echoes of silence and my shallow breath. With every step, I felt my fears sculpt themselves into form only to confront me. I heard a bold voice in the imperative from the chambers of my conscience, "Look at me," but I was too overwhelmed to listen and turned it a deaf ear. The eerie darkness surrounded me and I could sense the cold mist. This juxtaposed my shivering with the shallow pace of my warm breath, ironically, the only warmth, the only source of comfort in the uncertainty that engulfed me. Yet, as much as I felt lost, a sense of guidance contrasted this feeling. As though, an invisible hand pushed me forward without me having to worry about where I exactly trudged to.

I stopped.

In the veil of darkness that had obscured my vision, I could suddenly see everything. There were no windows around for any light to sneak through, except the cracked one I had left far behind. Yet, I could see paintings on the walls around. The walls appeared a shade of bottle green. The walls had been oil painted. And the paintings were all abstract art. Moving abstract art. The colours swivelled on their frames, like a child trying to mix different paints in a beaker. They contorted themselves into figures and shapes unknown, at least to me.   It was certainly an uncanny sight. However, what unsettled me more was the feeling of being targeted, as though the paintings were speaking to me, that they had verily been designed to only speak to me. It felt uncomfortable. As though, parts of me that I had for so long repressed, buried in the graves of my unconscious, were being shown to me. My shadows were confronting me. 

I started to run again. The faint light that had lit suddenly grew dark. It vanished. Someone had blown the invisible candles down, and the remaining apparitions of smoke powered themselves aganist me. They started to blow against me with garnered hostility. Yet they pushed me further into the darkness of the cottage, that had initally seemed small from the outside, but was - in reality - too large to end. I was led to the stairs and with uncanny confidence I climbed, as though I had always known it was there. As I climbed, I struggled between feeling a strange familiarity and not knowing what to expect ahead. 

Thud. 

I reached the second floor of not just the cottage but of my fate. I had reached the storehouse of ancient memory disguised as cyclical time. It started to smell strongly of lavender and... lemon. My favourite smells! And suddenly that Someone decided to burn the incense of my past memory. Something I had always resented. As I continued to be directed forward, my feet enjoyed the soft fabric of the carpet below. But who knew, that suddenly thorns would replace the velvety fabric. I walked on them. I thought this was meant to be a test of my courage, so I decided to make it all up; something I felt I had always lacked. But never truly did. At this thought, the faint light returned to show me a large mirror, almost eight feet tall and five feet wide. 

It all made sense to me now. But at the same time, Mystery had put her thick veil on. I could not look through it.

In the mirror I saw myself and my shadow. It put me to tears.

Gaurav Chandra Tuli