In that place, everything was a falsehood, a contradiction. What I had believed to be love was loathing; what I took for loathing was compassion; and what I perceived as compassion was, in truth, hatred. To step out into the open was to enter a hidden world, yet to withdraw into the shadows was to be utterly exposed.
I was in the darkness. At least, that is what I believed. All around me, a blackened light shone with brilliant intensity—a radiance that seemed blinding to those nearby.
At one point, I decided to seek out the light. This blackened glow was not true light. My conviction was that only that which emanated with a white brilliance could be called light. But I was in the heart of darkness. I had no sense of direction, no way to know where the white light lay. Indeed, where had I even seen such a light before? How could I claim that a white glow was the “true” light without ever having witnessed it? And yet, I knew with certainty that it existed within me.
I attempted to leave that dark place. Even without a sense of direction, I thought that by moving recklessly, I might somehow find a way. I tried to move. As I did, a chorus of groans rose from my surroundings. It seemed that every time I stirred, the blackened radiance flickered, intensifying the glare. Voices cried out for me to stop. In that moment, I realized the truth.
I was not in the darkness; I was the darkness itself. Despair took hold of me. The source of that blackened glow, shining so brilliantly, was none other than myself.
