Down and further down, deeper and deeper I go.
One would expect the days to blur easily into the next (after all, what meaning does form have in the dark?), but one would be wrong. Every second of every minute is blindingly clear. Every line, every movement is sharp as sunlight on water, every sound a piercing wound. Life--all thunder and movement and mad, mad color--barrels on without pause, without pity.
All this, however, has done nothing but contrast how utterly colorless I have become. Everyday, life would shine even brighter, and I would slink off deeper into my own shadow. Shorter and shorter would I spend time thinking as a human would, preferring to regress into a world governed by instinct and knee-jerk reactions. If I am not looking for food, I would be online, looking for sex. I would be reading or playing a video game, less for the pleasure it gives me, but more to really escape my own self. I do not have the guts to kill myself, so I am erasing my identity in ways I know how.
Deeper and deeper, and darker and darker.
I have accumulated shame as old things would dust and ash, and I have turned it into something that resembles sustenance--a perversion of passion. Shame, I have realized, is something that I have lived off of as soon as I started being aware of how insignificant I am, how utterly useless and how completely inadequate I have become. Shame brings me to my knees and I stay there--down and defeated and broken... and safe.
There is no light from where I am standing. Just a vast darkness, thick with fear and dead things. Life barrels on above me, but it casts no light on my flesh. If anything, all life does is push me deeper and ever deeper into the dark.
