A Tale of Darkness
Poem
by Michael Toney
I don't know how long I've been in this incapacitated state, for
time has surrendered its relevance for measurement to this infinite
depth sometime after my ability to see, hear, feel, or move was removed
from the command of my own free will. I seemed to have been convicted
and condemned to this contemptuous darkness, but I question its reality
because I have no awareness of when it began or if it hasn't always
been.
How much I hunger for what once seemed so naturally abundant in
its supply, existing beneath all other activities involuntary or willed.
If only I could draw a single long breath, letting in the flow of its
life giving powers, feeling it course through my lungs, feeding my
blood, then slowly allowing it to escape from my existence into the light I
once knew.
Although I have no means to understand when one moment starts and
another ends, I at least find relief in knowing that I'm not alone in
my fate into this maddening abyss. I faintly recognize a presence that
can only be of the human kind. It's like a mostly distorted wave in
the static of this infinite. Some sort of signal from the unknown
desperately trying to make contact with anyone who could respond, though
sadly I can not. Its results are eerie and indescribable in terms that I
could not relate to any memories of a past life I may have had.
I can only imagine in fright and with great concern and panic
what is occurring to my physical being. To no avail, I find myself trying
to count time as to imagine its deteriorating affect on my afflicted
state, however hideous and grotesque it might be now. It must have been
reduced to almost bone, void of any usable flesh. I know much time has
past because each moment I find it increasingly difficult to recall
even a single memory from my past. If only there was a way to confirm a
thought and truly understand the reality of my unhinging situation, then
maybe the uneasiness and unpleasantness of this freefall could be dealt
with at some level of dignity.
I sense it again, that slight and barely detectable difference
distinguishing itself from everything else, without regard to its
torturous result of unknowing its possible origin or message. And with no
means of anticipating its next occurrence, it always seems too late to try
and grasp what it is that makes it distinctive or what possible message
it so desperately wants to relay to my equally desperate soul; I always
seem to be in mid-thought, missing the chance to grasp its occurrence
at its starting point. Much exhaustion has been created on my part to
recreate its occurrence, not convinced that I may be both its origin and
destination, which would only contradict the possibility of not being
alone. Or maybe I m simply the executioner of my own torture by
prolonging this unfortunate hope.
Somehow light must exist, if in fact it was ever real and at this
point all thoughts are equally possible. It must have been, otherwise
why else would I conceive it to be. What would be the purpose and who
else, other than I, could I convince of that thought and why? All I
know now is the darkness and it must be infinite and without motion. If
I could only twitch a single muscle or produce a subtle sound from
whatever air is trapped in the bowels of my chest, but my state refuses to
change and my will remains as impotent.
With great duress, I must dare to describe the haunting images
passing through to taunt my darkness. These are not images one would see
with eyes and mine must have long since deteriorated in their now
vacant slots, but images so disturbing that they are only visible to the
soul. Disfigured, distorted, and with wavy sharp edges that burn and
produce an incredible pain to ones psyche as they rake across your inners
as if attempting to create another as disturbed as themselves. If only
I could let out a single scream, maybe they would realize the great
pain being inflicted by their razor-like contacts or if I could isolate
the source of my wounds, I could shift to avoid the next that will
undoubtedly create a much deeper sever in its next pass.
In this dismal state, I exist, but to no observable reason and
like this entombment, my existence must also be without the rescue of
bounds, even if it were merely to deliver an end.
A Tale of Darkness© Copyright 2004 Michael Toney, printed with permission. 05/12/04
