In the recesses of his mind are the remnants of the air of a dream, wisps of a fleeting thought, fragments of the notes of a song, and a voice he daren’t pay too much attention to. He glimpses from there the limits of language, the boundaries of imagery; all that can be found there is the sense of things, the sense of being. It is stumbling down the deepest caverns, ever aware of the darkness, the emptiness; they are all there is. Engulfed by dread, the aloneness, stumbling ever deeper, seeking ... anything, just something. Fighting to suppress all that fear brings to the light of the mind, back against the wall, arms outstretched; an unuttered mantra: all there is is that in reach. Fighting delusions with delusions. ‘Thunderous silence’ no longer an oxymoron, it’s all around, oppressing the very notion of sound, daring it to challenge it. Fighting an inferno with a spark, every whisper -every escaped whimper- hollowed, magnified & emboldened; audible blood to the terrors all around, inches from the fingertips. How much to push forward before turning back, how much to risk sacrificing? Is there anything to be found, anything worth finding? Go back to the light, live on the surface, sanity is there. Normality, safety, mundanity; there escaped whimpers can quickly die away. But how long can the urge be unheeded? When will the brightness start to blind; bury the remnants, smear the wisps, let fade the final note? To tread the darkness he must embrace the darkness, acknowledge the whimpers, reconcile the demons - as only he can. They are his.
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