Black

This is one you kind of have to think about to fully understand but I enjoyed writing it

 

Black

“Black is that which never starts, and that which always has been”

He wrote, starting to jot his thoughts down.

“Black is that feeling of loneliness, that dark corner,

That suffering, that night

That cloud of pain, that rain of death, that other person’s misery”

He stared at the paper, imagining those words coming to life, circling him. The luminescence from the lamp shadowed his hand, frantically scribbling, on the floor.

“Black is that graffiti scrawled on brick walls

On those bathrooms and train stations”

He started scrawling, murmured too cliché, erased, and started scrawling again.

“Black is that which is not your own, it’s that which has never been your own

And that which will never be yours; it’s that other person’s emotions,

That other person’s hardships, that other person’s life,

That guy who seeks to net the wind”

Flurries of eraser shavings appeared on his paper, and he blew them away with a breath of hot air, creating a miniature blizzard.

“Black is that seclusion, confusion, depression

Those dark spirits amidst that dark wreckage

That emptiness, that bleak, that nothing, that wasteland,

That enemy, that nemesis, that antagonist, that force”

He wrote and wrote and wrote, his pencil’s lead growing increasingly smaller.

“Black is that frozen tear falling silently in the darkness”

He stopped for a moment and marveled at this sentence, remembering that time, long, long ago.

“Black is that memory residing in the back of that mind

That war torn field, that bloodied field, that ancient field,

That field that hungers for death.”

He came from a poor family and worked his way up, starting as a gas station worker at his local Esso, and then, when the Vietnam War rolled around, he joined up, to fight for his country. He served two terms and earned the Purple Heart for being wounded in close combat with the enemy. After the war, he entered college, and found his true calling as a nuclear physicist. He’s a genius, a colleague once remarked.

“Black is like that grimy asphalt, downtrodden on by those indifferent, uncaring tires

That veil of dirt, that sneer of superiority, that dried crimson rain.”

Yes, those were the good old days, he stated, as if someone were listening, or for that matter cared.

“Black is that time past twilight, that dark blanket,

That moist endless cave,

That blank chalkboard, that wiped slate

That shrieking crow, that prowling wolf, that cheetah’s eyes

That rough, rugged, resistance

That which will always be there, between those mortal lights,

That forgotten twilight, those fragmented souls,

That lost image, seared into those corneas”

He furiously wrote, pouring out any thought that came to mind. So this is how society treats me, I do amazing things for it, and when I’ve outlived my use it throws me away.

“Black is the end, that end”

Dr. Black, someone said calmly at the edge of his mind, time for your daily trip outside. He dropped the worn pencil, and let himself be wheeled out, one wheel rattling the entire way.

“Black is that frozen tear, shattered, no longer falling, lying placidly, in the darkness,”

He thought, memorizing the last line of his poem. He glanced around, noticing anything and everything that existed out here. He shivered, tightening his jacket, and stared at a sign mounted above the building

“Terraceview Insane Asylum”

He stared at it.

Dr. Black, are you okay? Someone said, groping at the edge of his mind, Are you sure you don’t want to go back in?

All he did was shiver.