Consciousness awakens to total darkness like anti-matter within a vacuous realm of sinister imaginings. There is no quantifiable constructs on which to establish a sense of stability. Static, I feel like I could begin to fall in an eternal vortex of damnation. Nothing happens.
If I had tangible eyes, I suspect they’re deceiving me. I am conscious without existence, the personification of absolute nihilism.
A minute spec of illumination gathers velocity in it’s emerging presence. A figure sits on a two seated wrought iron bench dressed with varnished wooden brackets. An old street lamp casts its oddly luminous vapour on the soul, slouched in misery, devoid of connection.
The manacles of humanity are tempered in inextricable complexities. They bind us to fear based decline.
I know this is hell. Alone. Away from God.
fromwretchedtorecovery.com 