Without darkness I cannot see. The light is blinding. For as long as I walk this earth I will seek the dark event horizon, and struggle to climb from the depths once fallen. The light at the end is a trick of the mind. There is no light beyond this horizon. I walk further into dark to find it. A shimmer, I see, and am plunged into darkness. The velvet black comforts me. I know it is real. The smiles at the end of the tunnel, the joy, so difficult to grasp, and so quickly it will all fade. But not the black. The black will always be there, loyal, behind it all. When its thick arms rope around my doughy body, I trust it. I am safe in the black. Alone.
What is it to be alone? To be comforted by solitude because it’s something you can feel? No, to be alone is not solitude. It’s not isolation. Not loss. It’s what sky becomes when space ends. It is less than nothing. Imagine: suffocating on your own imploded self. Imagine this darkness. This bottom of the mirror. This face trapped in an empty frame. This is what it is to be alone. It simply isn’t at all.
And what to think of space beyond sky, beyond molecules? Is it anything at all? Nothingness is inconceivable. Nothing does not equate to dark. Nothing is a concept too great and terrible for the mind to allow itself to understand. It holds no description.
And to be alone is to be less than nothing. To be drinking in air where there is none. A chest flattened against a spine. To crumble in agonized silence, and become something that never existed. A false memory, forgotten.
Forget me not, black.