tea for the tillerman

he would often sit at his desk late into the night, trying to distract himself from the rush of darkness seeping into his mind. webpages, video games, books, music, friendly small talk through instant-messaging. all as a means to try and keep the fear at bay -- the dense fog that inevitably would consume him regardless of how he was feeling that day.

it was as if the night stripped him of his own dellusions, reflecting only the barest realities. truth and secrets that during the day were kept buried deep inside, safe from the sun and anything the sun could touch.

no, the darkness inside him was where the truth would hide. and at night, when the sun went to bed and night spread over the world, the secrets inside would be free to come out. the truth would roam free, weighing down the cold air in his room that he was filling his lungs with.

and like someone caught under an avalanche, he was unable to move, to see, to get up or out from under this incredible weight. he was defenseless.

without even the freedom to breath, every moment of the dark and cold night became a struggle to survive. a fight to live.

he could barely make out the shapes and outlines of his room as the world began to fade away, replaced by guilt, hate, remorse, regret, and all the other emotions that human beings hide away in their darkest places -- as far from the sun as possible.

he put his head in his hands, slumped over with his eyes closed. defeated.

for despite all that he felt, he knew as he was fading away that he was not being taken from the world. instead, he was walking away, by his own conscious will. by his own volition.

he wanted to disappear. and it was himself, not the room around him, that was starting to concede to his own futility.

the outlines were getting more vague as the projection of reality began to recede around him. it was as if he was walking backwards through the history of film.

things were becoming grainy, outlines became blobs became concepts. was this the golden age?

colours drained away, replaced by the soft glow of black and white hues (his own existence glowing a dull grey. how appropriate). perhaps pre-technicolor?

the world began to slow to a stop. it was coming in jilted series now, and fluidity ceased to exist. life became a series of snapshots, and a lone voice permeated what once was the white noise of consciousness. could we now be in the talkies?

then the slideshow began to slow down. gradually, taking excruciatingly longer than it should, the pictures began to grind to a halt, each one starting to stay long enough that he could almost make out the scene...

it was so familiar.

if he could just recognize what he was seeing. it was at the tip of his tounge. he could almost see it in his mind....

it was so familiar.....

so familiar....

so...

....familiar......................................................................
...................................................................................
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you ever notice how the more attention you pay to a word, the more wrong it seems to look?

english is funny like that.