Pseudo-poet (part 1)

i have befallen imminent doom.

some people say that they feel small and insignificant in this world. not me. it's my world. and it's pretty big in here, but it's easy to get lost inside.

somewhere along the line, i found myself in a dark room--desolate and strange. the smell was like country apple and rotting fish--two warring odors coexisting into enhanced unpleasantness. the room was dry and uncannily empty, as if something had belonged there. and everywhere, i could feel that whatever was missing had been substituted with the bitter shadows of fear. and within the darkest shadow, as if blanketed with time, was a window.

neither light nor darkness penetrated this window and its frame hinted at molten tears. i was not stuck there--that is not the imminent doom. i could sure as hell run in and out as i pleased. but there was a particular calling. the voice that fervidly called for my attention. a mystery to be solved.

all around, there is destruction; there, there is none. after years of returning to this room, i learned little. there is no key to the window despite a hidden keyway and nothing was to be found inside the room except for a single candle. today, i returned with the candle burning at my side while i sat on the cold cement floor, feeling unease and peace both. why this room? why this window?

and just as the dancing firelight extinguished its last millimeter of life, a momentous thought occurred to me in the burning silence. that i had found the black pit of what was. or at least what seemed to be. and in complete darkness, i felt the imminent doom. not an event or circumstance or even an object, but an epiphany. standing between what was and what will be: the ignorance of the human heart.

--- 12 June 2006

I was really into poetry and prose for a long time in high school. I tried as hard as possible to avoid angsty stuff. I really don't know what to make of it now. Thoughts?