I take my comfort now as I took it then, in the eternal, ancient darkness of the night. On this night the clouds are so thick as to cover the moon and stars. The result is darkness so true that I cannot see my hand before my face. It's perfect for me.
Somehow I need it, this blackness. It wraps around me, warm and comfortable like the blanket of my youth. Others are frightened by the night, lightless as it is. I know better; there is nothing in the darkness that isn't there in the day. And if, as they say, danger lurks, then it knows better than to bother me. Indeed, if by some chance something manages to destroy me it would be a great favour.
Ha! What an amusing a thought. How can something that has been destroyed be destroyed again? No, now I merely await the time when this shell that houses what is left of my soul gives out. It is not so far away, the body does not last long without the spirit.
I am here now not because of old woes, but to seek refuge from those who would "heal" me. They do not understand that I am unworthy. Nor do I care for their illusion of happiness. Once I did, once I would have found comfort in their arms instead of in the merciless night. But now there is only one who could possibly heal me and he....no, I cannot go there.
The night has never claimed to be anything other than what it is. There are no pretenses, no masks, no fake images of being pleasent. No, the night will take you on a whim, rip you to pieces and leave you to die - but it is honest about its intensions. People will put you back together, say they didn't mean it, then start shredding you all over again.
Here in this pitch blackness I can see nothing, and I am quite sure nothing can see me save the night itself. And most importantly, in this place, at this time, no once can see me cry.
