There is a recoil, an invisible, inaudible snap, then – an unconscious thunderclap. All is quiet apart from hate.
One moment you were a living, breathing thing – now this is replaced by a personal gravity, a force pulling all and everything down, then further still, until it sinks through a level you thought was solid. It floats, hovers, and lands soft and heavy – a feather, leaden. The dust caught hanging in the air by the sunlight blinds you, rain on the window shatters your vision – the day breaks upon the glass and forecasts a sweet and sickly darkness. The horror of existence is made apparent in this latest kaleidoscope, magnified and magnificent – a terrible, awful beauty. It turns. It twists. Everything spins.
What was inside is now out, and even the upsides are down.
It has risen, dark and ravenous, from within. It is seemingly awakened by the simplest of thoughts, by the most innocent of dreams, by passing statements from those who care. Aroused by the idea of itself, it slouches towards me, hunched, powerful and ready – eager to repel hope, yearning to feed upon itself, knowing that its hunger will not be satisfied until it is full and I am empty. How it loves to pounce, full of surprise and illogical wit, pulling and stretching to breaking point all I have gathered within myself since it’s last unwelcome visit. A pop-in from internal anger, a visitation from nothing, a null. It leaves only whispers in a vacuum.
It told me I had failed, and that to try would only be to fail again.
All who I love, those near and far, I yearn to push away. To be alone is to be blessed. I hold my tongue amongst others – I would be seen to be speaking, but the words, I think, would not be mine. They would be the truth of sorrow, spoken through pain.
I wait, and hope it passes.
