Horror, dark fantasy, sci-fi, genre, writing,

Black holes and other textures of life

Sometimes life feels like a large hole I’m continually falling down.  There is a free-floating calm to this feeling and no light at the end, which is why I refer to the experience as falling down a hole.

The sensation creeps up on me at times, while other times it falls on me like a wet blanket.  Today was one of those days the feeling crept up on me.  Early on everything seemed normal and moving in the usual direction.  Then at some point a subtle shift occurred and before I knew it all substantial footing was lost.

Usually on these days I disappear, whether amongst a crowd or sparse populace matters little, as I am alone in this fall.  In the old days I might disappear for a few days or wonder amongst strangers in a mall while the clouds of numb float around me.  Now, I go home and sit quietly watching my family.

The connection between my family and I is thinner while I fall, but it is still there.  My wife is even kind enough to recognize the need for me to slide into a hermit shell and so she waits calmly for the darkness to lift away.  She hugs me, kisses me, and wishes me well.

I often think a lot during the plummet, wondering if there is a bottom for me to hit this time or not.  You see, I never really know if the hole has a bottom.  Once, I hit the bottom and stayed there for a few weeks.  Other times, I fell and fell only to land on a precipice and walk away without a scratch.  Every trip is a little different.

Now that I have a family, I try to fight the falls a bit.  I’ve even gone as far as to get tests and solicit professional opinions as to why these episodes occur to me.  According to a few psychiatrists I suffer from depression.  Soon a medication will be prescribed to assist me in resisting these stumbling blocks in life.  I’ll let you know if it works.

In the past, when life was less hectic and time more plentiful, I fell into a good story, either of my own creation or someone elses.  Such pleasure is a rare commodity now-a-days though.  I still try though.  In fact today, once I realized I was in the midst of a hollow trip, I submitted one of my stories to another publication.  Though there was no pleasure of disappearing into the imagination, the act of practicing hope towards a wonderful outcome almost sparks a light.  The numbness is a little more bearable after such an act.

Even now, as I tappity-tap the keys my spirit is lightened and the plummeting slows.  Thus is the life of someone with an artistic mind perhaps, where life slowly becomes a blight that only creation may cure us from.  It makes sense, since that is what art is for to begin with, to offer light and wonder and hope and comfort to those pained by the harshness of reality.

Alas, I’m merely rambling now, so I will desist.   Fare thee well my reader and pray for me.


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