The paper wobbled as he opened his eyes, shaking incessantly from an unknown hand, probably his own. The pencil wrote in a multi-colored flamboyant light, it’s rays blinding his eyes as he wrote. The doctors said this was going to happen but he hadn’t believed them. The man did not know what he was writing or what the purpose of the story was, just that it relieved the pain that ached him. The pain was not physical, but it stung as much as a bolt of lightning. The man felt the pain of heartbreak as he waited for his wife to come back from the grocery store, who had taken everything he cared about with her. The only thing she had taken, was her tender hand from his small but big heart.

The wife had taken much more than a person from him, but his world. The world was the happiest one he had ever known, for he had nothing. The world was the world of all worlds, it was the epicenter of his life. The life she had taken from him, meant more to him than anything or anyone.

The man felt a two edged sword attacking him from both sides. The first pain was not having her with him. The second pain was the pain of forgiveness, for he was unable to forgive her. The wife he assumed, had a man now, one that he could never have been. The wife was probably happy, and had children, and didn’t have to work, and had the life she had always dreamed of, for this is what he wanted for her. The man could still not forgive her.

The bed he was on, mildewed. The house he slept in, caved in. The refrigerator he had had, sold to pay for his pencil and paper, for she had taken everything. The paper stopped shaking, the pencil wrote in a now distinct black line, the man accepted his wife for what she had done.

His eyes opened for real this time, for he could see. His physical vision remained the same but he could see into his heart, which had mended. He looked at the manuscript and saw the hundreds of pages of writings he had compiled together. He had created light in a place with only darkness, for he was brilliant.