A Space Like Home - ORIGINAL PROSE

                                    

                                          
In a darkened room, where only a single spotlight shines down from above, five remain. Their heads are bowed, their gaze directed to the floor, their arms dangling by their sides, their backs are slightly slouched, despite efforts to stand straight, with their feet perched together, as if waiting for something or someone to give them instructions, perhaps even direct them down their path; some sport headphones, worn around their necks, others wear backpacks either securely upon their backs or dangling from either shoulder, an aid to their terrible posture; on their feet, some wear the latest the local stores have to offer, while others are not so fortunate. Each looks as different and unique as the next, but they all stand together, neither one superior or inferior to the next. Between them, space lingers. None of them reach out to the peers.
One after another, they step forward, their gaze lifted, searching around as they take in all which surrounds them. Some have wonder in their eyes, others have sadness, but all of them carry a sense of uncertainty in their bodies, as if they want to look away from the abyss' penetrating gaze but are unable to, are not allowed to, are entrapped by obligation and responsibility, but also liberation and excitement to look on. They sense the end, but they always knew the end would arrive, perhaps just not this quickly.
Each says their piece, portioning out their life stories into manageable, digestible chunks, perhaps some are choosing the less traumatic, horrifying moments to share, all the while hoping they don't cause others to run from them in a blind panic, looking to them like monsters, like abnormalities, like creatures less a part of society than anyone would admit; perhaps they have this vague, directionless, optimistic mindset that their stories shall help others who went through all they did, only they did not end up a statistic, a number dangling over their heads like a sword ready to fall at any moment.
They all pursed higher education, for some this meant a well-paid job and respectable career, but happiness cannot be found in their features. For others, to be an artist meant hunger would surely follow them all their days, all in their quest for knowledge, expression and food. Their eyes are tired, they struggle to walk as they once did – confident as they went, their subconscious pushing away self doubt and practical thinking, upturning its nose at such ideas, scrambling alone in the loneliness of their bedrooms.
They step back into the shadows, for some the lights dim, brighten or cut out completely. One remains, their features shift dramatically, and in quick succession, happy sad happy sad happy sad guilty afraid unsure tired bored happy sad happy sad annoyed embarrassed afraid tired happy bored unsure, until they settle on something akin to contentment, perhaps mixed with a little bit of uncertainty, but free in one single moment out of a hundred others to simply be. Tears are in their eyes, they aren't sure if happiness blooms or sadness drowns.
Speaking in a loud, clear voice masking shyness, anxiety and sadness, tears flooding their cheeks, yet they are so desperate to prevent such public displays of vulnerability, they say a select few words borne from power and a rollercoaster of emotions. They wipe them away, their eyes closed. They do not open them again, avoiding the abyss despite how it forces their gaze.
"A space like home I have found, I never want it to leave me. But I fear I shall leave it."