Quietly,
privately,
I kneel in the dark, resting my head against my hands as I lean against the bed for support.

Need drew me towards the dark in which I often find comfort, an uncompromising necessity to escape the carnage of emotion drew me to my knees.

Disassociation begins, and slowly, with gravel embedded in my hands, and dirt smudged on my knees, I crawl inside myself.

Nothingness.
Nothingness is what I seek.

But to do that, I must search each room and recess of my mind, and turn off each light.
The brightness tortures my eyes.

As I explore each room, I fondly make note of idiosyncrasies.

The way the light creeps through the curtains as if trespassing apologetically, bringing with it a soft, hazy warmth.
The moss creeping surrepticiously along the floor of the room least visited, cobwebs gathering detritus of musings discarded.
The crumbling brickwork spattered with my blood in the obliterated room where I go to tempt my demons out to play.
The sumptuous melody, like warm treacle snagged on a razor blade, which hums through walls of velvet in the room where my desires reside.

I note all these things as I carefully extinguish each light, but leave those thoughts in the dusk as it creeps, and in the hovering dark the nothingness comes achingly closer.

Fleetingly puzzled.
No echo…
Even as each mind room is emptied.
It’s as if each sacred place knows I’ll return, thus feels no need to cry out as I leave.

In the penultimate room I store my hopes, not neatly arranged by chronology or import, but stacked in tatty old boxes, haphazardly strewn by a wayward mind. The switch is stuck from lack of care, smudges of dirt tell their own tale of neglect. It takes determination and stubborness to shut off the almost equally stubborn light.

Then.
Darkness.
And confusion.
There’s still one room left.

As I crawl resolutely to the final door, feeling my way, tracing memories with my fingertips, I remember.
This was the light I shut off first, yet the furthest from the beginning.

The nothingness allows me a brief echo of memory.
I see myself remove the bulb, even though it’s warmth burnt my fingers.
I watch as I wrapped the delicate bulb in folds of fabric, embers of light indignant at the intrusion.
I hold my breath as the bulb is crushed underfoot, bite my lip as I feel a sharp pain as temptation is wrenched from my grasp.

In the dark of this final room I find my bulb, now cooled, and listen intently as the broken shards create their own song as I move the fabric carefully in my hands.

I see myself, then,in future’s echo, with the utmost care unfold the fabric, and painstakingly piece each fragment back together, golden resin marking fracture lines, illuminating the beauty of it’s broken past.
But not now.
Not yet.
Now I need to let go of the fragments and let the nothingness take me.
I need to submit, if only to myself, in order to find peace.

So I place the fabric encased glass splinters to one side and let the nothingness take care of it, as I take care of me.

 

 

 

 

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