It’s dark, where I am. Not cold, for cold gives you solace. Not hot, as in a hammer striking molten iron to make a sword. Not warm, pointlessly and deliberately harsh and itchy. Most importantly, it’s not bright; for bright is both harshly mocking and kindly admiring—giving you a spotlight both to grow and to wither at the same time. You cannot grow without withering.
It’s dark. I long for the dark that has breathing holes poked into it to show stars, that lets you breathe in the galaxy and learn and grow under it. But there is no growing without withering.
It’s dark. Smotheringly so. I will accept withering if only I can grow before that. What darkness is either not aware of or purposefully ignores is that there is withering without growing.
If I could speak to darkness, I would tell it that forever is kind in letting you never experience its fangs, that forever knows how beautiful a moment is in comparison. I would tell darkness that I wish for it to leave the confines of my body and to instead embrace itself. That in trying to make me live while staying the exact same, that it kills me in the future.
It’s dark. I wish for the darkness to lift its heavy shadow and to let me change and bloom like a flower so that I do not wither as a seed.
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