It's an odd sensation -- a little less disconcerting, a lot more nostalgic -- stepping inside a dark room and feeling a door close behind you. The rush of air and noise from outside being shut out by an abrupt and final thud of wood on wood. Nothing stirs, as if no form or matter exists. Just you and your breathing, and if you listen close enough, your heart beating solidly against the dark.
Thoughts creep unbidden of what you will see when the lights fire up. You look around in vain, preparing for the impending glare of lights, all at once brilliant and terrible and painful to the eyes.
You are restless, weary, and impatient but you do not move. And your senses may be heightened but you are emotionally indifferent. Somehow you know, when you see what you need to see inside the cold, dark room, emotions would be mere trifle, and ultimately inconsequential. Because inside the room it doesn't matter what you feel. There is either complete acceptance of the light, or complete rejection. Face reality, or remain in the dark. Absolute truth, or absolute fiction.
It's no secret that, if given the choice, I would rather remain in fiction; in the comfort of my dark, truth-free fantasy. But I promised myself no more fighting. Let the cosmos have its way with me. My will is illusion, and now, so is the world outside this room.
So my life is once again another waiting shed until a new version of the truth comes around. That's nothing new.
