Vantablack

My very soul is just a light trap. Shying away from the entrance to the realm of happiness. This mind is more than dark. Serotonin lies in the shadows, stealthily attacked. My past self awaits in an oblivion within. I’m merely a shadow. No depth, no way to cut myself some slack. I can’t see myself in the crystal clear definition I used to. I’m vantablack.

I can’t emit what little light I have left, although it’s too slight to be seen. Like a pilot light flickering in a basement, cold blue in colour, but burning above a thousand degrees. Squandering the little energy I have left to spare, on the few reasons I can salvage of why I still care. It’s hard to ignore, like eyes transfixed on burning flares flying through the sky. Like a survivors last effort to be noticed and saved, before their last day just becomes eight numbers engraved.

Back in the past you were airborne. You used to feel the warmth of the sun & the glacial glow of a winters night moon. What feels picture perfect in hindsight, was taken too soon. Spiralling out of control, like a whirlpool in the sea, that’s two pairs of brimful lungs, reserved for you and me. I’m sinking in to insanity, but ‘I’m’ has lost all the meaning I ever came to digest. All I believe I am is depersonalized and depressed.

Why do we have to wait so long for help, as if we aren’t subjected to an impending doom. I think I’ve ‘lived’ the penultimate year of my life, confined in this claustrophobic cocoon. Like a transparent safety blanket that no one else can see, particularly the inward pointing needles sucking the life from me.

Family seem to care about my well being, but for some reason, not as much as getting employed, as if 3 months at rest is a ‘laziness’ I’ve enjoyed, and that in absence of help, I magically filled in the void. Even on my birthday I was persuaded to think about getting a job, even though I’m working harder than anyone, just to make it through each day.

Can you really put a price on mental health, being worth less than a month’s pay? Well now for me, the value of my life is a currency obsolete. You can assume somebody is alive, without hearing their heart beat, but is it fair to assume the ‘feeling’, when your expectations ride shotgun, with their needs slumped over the backseat?

There is no sound for the plummet of self worth, especially from the summit of condescension you’ve been constructing since birth. So load another shell to your barrel of laughs, in your delusional perfect earth, and step on the gas. Oblivious to the mental minefield where the wretched one’s have to walk among glass.

My past perception is preserved in a frozen cavern, in wait to emerge again. But as of now I’m controlling a stranger within, to a safe haven in a lions den. No one but the unlucky ones suffering, could grasp the feeling of being a stranger to yourself. So why do a select few prioritise wealth over health. I bet I’m not the only one, so just keep your cards close to your chest. I’m not the only one just doing their best. Anyone else?

I hope we all make it out of this conscious coma in which we are deprived of the sense of reality we grew so close to. And we can all enjoy and appreciate the things we wanted to pursue. I hope this isn’t forever, because they say forever doesn’t last forever. But a life with this is one I don’t care for, whatsoever.