Darkness Within


The mother’s womb was only good for one thing: Darkness. When within Darkness, there is no possibility of experience, no possibility of life, no possibility of human activity, of destructive thoughts.

See your reflection in the window. Look at the glass surface and see repugnance in the eyes which stare back at you. See the world through this glass surface, with yourself always taking centre stage. Then let a light shine on that surface and bid adieu to the semi-transparent reflection; lose your Self. See the world for the first time through the looking glass, without you and your mind and your intuitive forces and your temporal order and spatial ordering. Try to imagine the world before your Being, before your consciousness.

I received my parents’ light and the light labelled me as free. I labelled my parents as impenitent, and I, in turn, can never forgive them. The light struck me, and rules hit me like stones. They told me I can only be free within the boundaries of the stones. I lived in the bright shadow of the righteous. The light bequeathed a shameful past and a hopeless future. It overhauled the dark moments in which I did not see the shadow of a past or the haze of a future. In its absence, the Darkness fascinated me. I realized that in the moments of Darkness we never cry in vain; it is only when we see the first light, when we are first born, do our plights take the form of failure, and the darkness around us, becomes hidden darkness within us.

I think about the therapy session: the therapist with ardently glaring eyes. I cannot look at her feminine eyes. They are far too caring to look at. I try to think of what to say. I want people to stop treating me like an object which can be discarded, overhauled, forgotten; I want to be a subject again. I want people to realize that I am not their possession. I no longer want to see myself as a corpse in relation to everyone; I want people to recognize that choosing to know someone is a responsibility in itself. I also want to go back to when my existence did not take the form of a colossal question with spinning, contradictory and riddled answers. Her eyes, sympathetic, caring, but unhelpful.

The Darkness sears inside, in the depths; it yearns to envelope me again, and I desire it as well, the sweet last caress of Darkness. The fever brings me closer to my beloved Darkness—tunnel vision—dims the lights of existence.  The more my body resists it, the more it secretes black bile which sinks me deeper in melancholy; weighs me down to under-earth where I’m buried alive in thoughts which work their own way from my brain into my soul and infect me with their Enlightenment.

The therapist’s room, beige walls, a flamed rouge couch, the sound of students scurrying obliviously without inquiry into why or how. Their existence—not in the form of a question—passes lightly.

The Darkness wraps a noose around my stomach. This undeclared affair gives me solace; but when Darkness is away, I weep for solace to come back, for my source of Self-destruction.

The stones that bound me shift a little upon my father’s will; everything falls to his will, even my purity, as he touched me, broke me with his Masonic hands which changed the stone boundaries very often.

I would’ve loved to be aborted when I was in Darkness instead of slowly being erased by the same hands that made me.

So now I strip away my skin, I drain the black bile in my carnal den, so I can save the darkness within.


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