Beauty in the Darkness

“I can’t read you.”

You’re right, as usual.

Well, to be fair, I can’t read myself right now.

Strangely enough, I feel everything so much that I seem to feel nothing at all.

Take your paints, mix them up, leave with a shade of black.

There is no beauty in the darkness.

I take a breath, sense a swirl, feel the sensation of my body in distress.

High alert, my body numb to the noise ringing in my ears.

The ringing in my ears.

No longer heard, oblivious, to the state of desperation.

Another plug and the surge explodes in fiery destruction.

“I can’t read you.”

It scares you.

I see it.

I care.


I don’t.

I cry.


My body shakes and surges, my ocean full of tension blasting from my chest.

You pull me tight.

I clutch your shirt.

To your chest I scream the nonsense in my brain.

From my mouth pours a swirl.

“It’s ok.”

You hold me tight.

You keep me safe.

You calm my ocean like Poseidon to the sea.

But unlike the ocean, I am drained.

My body is a shell, tested to the limits.

But you hold me.

And I am reminded that there can be beauty in the darkness.

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