Author: RavenclawMoose PM
The words stick inside, and no amount of screaming will make the blackness go away. A stream of consciousness on what depression means to me. Warning for talk of self-harm.Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 392 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 04-12-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3013056
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
You are filled with ghosts and the ink of unspoken words. They coat the edges of that cavernous emptiness that you hardly dare to notice most days. The one that other days has you tensed up so hard trying not to scream that you feel as though you must explode from it.
You will fly apart one day. The ink of everything left unsaid will splatter across the pavement and all of your words will bleed out and into each other, mixing together till only scraps are left of who you were.
Memories and emotions roll about inside of you, but you can never get them out your mouth. They twist and tangle until they are blurting out in an unrecognizable simple and pathetic mess, like someone drawing a stick figure copy of the Mona Lisa.
And it hurts. The pressure of ghosts and ink scrapes at your insides, but the whole world presses in the other direction. Some days you think you may explode; other days you just want to curl up and be pressed so small you disappear. The words you have so close to your mouth get pressed back down, the ink of them sliding down your throat like grease, going so deep you'll never find them to speak again.
Those days are when the emptiness creeps up on you, engulfs you in a darkness so complete that nothing could fill it with light even if you consumed all the stars in the universe.
When the ghosts begin to whisper too loud and the ink runs down the walls of the cavern you can't ignore, you cannot help but wonder. If you cut yourself, would you bleed at all, or would only ink and dusty memories leak out of your dead skin? Would you fall apart, if you let yourself crack even a little bit? Will you crumble into dust like a leaf in autumn? Will there even be enough of you to leave anything behind, once that emptiness claims you?
You think you had better get those ink black words out before they are consumed beyond redemption, but there's no chance of that because you still can't speak them. They are stuck inside of you, and no matter how hard you try to scream, nothing will come out.
The abyss is a selfish place.