Low resolution haze

 

Every day I fell in through the door,

school bag thrown idly at the wall. Hidden.

No more school, no more walking in a world

I didn't fit in. No more hateful talk...

 

I would plant myself, a lonely tree,

eyes locked to the screen, roots inching

into the carpet, council fire warming the chill.

Mind ready to explore.

 

I would get lost in the vibrant brightness

of cartoons, surreal dreams poured into my head.

Fantasy realms blend in with the sunlight through

my blinds, becoming vivid, real, ethereal, 

where the darkness never wins. And for a few moments,

I'd be at ease. Escape from the need to always

be present.

 

To escape the shadow side of me.

The one that would climb through my pores

when I was feeling ill at ease.

The one that claws at my dreams.

A detour from facing the outside world.

 

Then I'd set up my Sinclair Spectrum,

128k of pure escape. Tapes loading me

into an 8-bit low-resolution haze.

 

Imagination became a revelation,

when a few pixels can construct a world for us.

I'd dive so deep, explore galaxies,

delve through caverns avoiding spiders

and the hands that reach from graves beneath.

 

I learned to read. I needed to take in every scene,

so manuals became the drug to feed my cravings.

I would scour books, I'd devour movies,

escaping. Always escaping.

 

Until drink found me wallowing.

A grave I could really dig into.

A craving that clung to my skin,

blacking out my days - leaving me dreamless

and barely functioning.

 

But then I found my pen, and I started to

scratch away at those fears, inking them

into notepads, painting them brightly

instead of etching grim dripping leers.

 

I sketched magic moments of play,

I learned to love myself,

and to see what I was running from all those days.

The power I held inside, that scared me

more than I ever let on.

The power to love and never give in.