Time doesn’t exist in a coma. As soon as the fog had me I realized it had always had me, and by the time I could feel it lifting it felt like I’d only been under its spell for seconds.

  During my time in the infinite pitch planes I found myself in I never got used to the darkness. My eyes never became accustomed to it’s unforgiving, unrelenting depths. The world was made up only of sound.

  Outside of myself a door would close and inside an ominous clap of thunder would ring out in the distance, startling me from my introversion. A window would be left open and I would be forced to endure a biting hurricane the likes of which the world has never seen. God like voices thrummed across the charcoal airwaves in an unintelligible language of endlessly extended vowels.

  I don’t quite know how it happened. One moment I was awake and in the next I could feel the dark offering itself to me, beckoning from the sidelines of my consciousness. Promising an easy escape.

  I welcomed it and it engulfed me instantly, wrapping it’s velvet arms around me, smothering me with its blissful protection. I could feel it’s tendril fingers creep inside my head, expanding painfully as they wrapped around my cerebrum. I began to feel stifled. Scared. The world got darker, as if a cloud had momentarily blotted out the sun, and then it passed across my vision entirely, the darkness, like a theatre curtain signalling the end of my first act.

~ by Joseph Blame on September 2, 2010.

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