Darkness
* * *
Darkness.
All around you it is, an inky black, penetrated by nothing, so thick you can almost feel it against yourself. Eyes open or eyes closed, it does not matter.
Darkness. Like the womb, like the moment before creation, like an infinite nothing.
And with it silence. Utter, complete, absolute. So complete, this darkness and this silence, that you wonder now if you exist at all.
Perhaps.
But how to tell?
You do not know. But with this question, memory comes.
You remember. You remember you remember you remember. Brief flashes at first, visions in the complete darkness, visions that are memories. And identities come with the memories, questions of who and what being posed and answered.
There, over there, brief flashes of light. Not there in the darkness, but there in your mind. Memories of them, of light playing over stone, over walls of stone, over broken, shattered rocks. Then, voices with the lights, familiar voices.
You remember being afraid. Odd now, how distant that seems, wrapped in the darkness. Like another place, another person, far, far away.
Afraid.
You remember now also the sight of them. Two lights, playing over the rocky walls. One, bright, falling on you. Hearing them, hearing your name, hearing yourself call out. And then, not so far over there, you remember seeing him, the familiar look of him, remember seeing him on the narrow ledge, coming toward you.
Falling, leaping.
You remember.
Darkness then.
Darkness now, in the silence of where you are.
* * *
Darkness.
All around you it is, an inky black, penetrated by nothing, so thick you can almost feel it against yourself. Eyes open or eyes closed, it does not matter.
Darkness. Like the womb, like the moment before creation, like an infinite nothing.
And with it silence. Utter, complete, absolute. So complete, this darkness and this silence, that you wonder now if you exist at all.
Perhaps.
But how to tell?
You do not know. But with this question, memory comes.
You remember. You remember you remember you remember. Brief flashes at first, visions in the complete darkness, visions that are memories. And identities come with the memories, questions of who and what being posed and answered.
There, over there, brief flashes of light. Not there in the darkness, but there in your mind. Memories of them, of light playing over stone, over walls of stone, over broken, shattered rocks. Then, voices with the lights, familiar voices.
You remember being afraid. Odd now, how distant that seems, wrapped in the darkness. Like another place, another person, far, far away.
Afraid.
You remember now also the sight of them. Two lights, playing over the rocky walls. One, bright, falling on you. Hearing them, hearing your name, hearing yourself call out. And then, not so far over there, you remember seeing him, the familiar look of him, remember seeing him on the narrow ledge, coming toward you.
Falling, leaping.
You remember.
Darkness then.
Darkness now, in the silence of where you are.