The problem with the Darkness, of course, is that it swallows you whole. You're only dying slowly, but you do so entirely, aware of every minute as it passes, numb inside the cotton vacuum behind its jagged teeth. I do not open my eyes properly, move my muscles or fill my lungs, everything is stunted. When they knock on my window and ask me questions, I reply in half sentences without punctuation, leaving trails of clues behind me but only if you already hold the riddle in your hand. I force myself to runs along the river, my feet pounding in automatic routines, while my brain ruminates like a cow recycling the same three straws of grass for an hour. Nothing new happens, nothing changes, it does not have the energy to build any story, and I don't force it.
The scariest part of the Darkness is always the apathy. The way my marionette limbs can collapse on a couch in unhuman forms and stay there reluctantly. The way my heart wants to sleep at 7:30, concocting rationales of detrimental sleep deficits and productive tomorrows but in the back of my mind a foggy memory of the Darkest Year when all there was was sleep. I carry this illness like a leper's, closing all the gates to protect the uninfected world. How could I ever put anyone through this? I'm sorry I'm defective, I whisper to the piles of clothes on my floor, the unwashed coffee cups and messages awaiting reply on my phone. I'm sorry I whisper to the unfinished manuscripts, the emptied bank accounts, the strangers who I am supposed to impress into adoration, the city that agreed to hold me as long as I kept deserving it.
I write a long to do list for morning. Try desperately to wipe the slate clean, do all the right things: fake it till you make it. The Darkness moves across your body like tar. I'm only closing my eyes for a bit.
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