Friday, February 15, 2008

In the Void

Created from a prompt for a writing exercise.

In the void there are sensations, but no sensory input to classify. One does not hear so much as recalls hearing. A drip echoes, or the memory of a drip from years ago. The silence becomes sound as the brain struggles to retain a grasp on sanity and the mortal coil.

Images flicker—flashes of what came before the darkness, but one knows these are memories, unlike the ghost sounds that almost convince one they aren’t alone. Aren’t abandoned.

The void lies at the bottom of the stairs that lead upwards, but nothing remains beyond the door. Maybe a grey dawn that fades into the same charcoal night.

After “day” loses meaning, time becomes fragmented. It slips by, unmarked, until time is a memory like sight and sound.

There used to be touch—shivers and gooseflesh, sweats and shakes. Touch has ceased, too. It was the boundary that defined space, but space and boundaries have become memories. There is nothing but the void, and the void is everything.

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