I Should Have Kept Them Open

I live in a strange simplicity, a cycle that seems to never end.

When I open my eyes, there is only darkness. It encloses me, keeps me here, living in stale, still air; it is how I live. When I close my eyes, I see the same thing: a white silken fabric inches from my face; it is the only thing I dream of. When I touch it, there is comfort from a familiarity that I can't explain; it is the only thing I am able to feel. Other times, as sweat runs down my skin, I dream of the beautiful silk soaked in blood that drips and drips and drips.

The darkness of my reality is quiet, so much so that it somehow suppresses the sound of my breaths. At first, my mind couldn’t handle the silence; it was like losing one's mind, sanity trying to break free. So, I learned to close my eyes and dream for as long as I could, to close my eyes when the quiet became overwhelming. I wonder if it will always be like this.

I try to scream. I beg and cry as well, but I am never heard. Is it because I don't know who I am screaming to? Or does the darkness devour all sound? At least I dream when I close my eyes, and the white silk is there, reminding me that there is more than my confines.

Time has passed. Time is passing. Time will pass.

I am always here.

One time, I dreamed of maggots under the white silk, hearing their movements as they crawled above me. I'm still not sure what that meant, and I don't think I want to know.

It might be silly, though I'm not sure why it would be, but when the dark is too suffocating, I tell myself fairytales. The beginnings and ends are easy, but it's the middles that always escape me. That's okay because the blanks let me fill the stories with more of myself. I whisper those stories until I close my eyes. But if I tell myself too much of fantasy, the characters visit my dreams, their faces behind the white silk, protruding as they scream at me.

The darkness does not wipe away tears, and neither can I.

There are times when I hear distant footsteps above me. When I hear that sound, an urgency chills my insides, and I try very hard to be heard. But when I hear whispers, I fill the darkness with enough noise that the borders of this existence vibrate. My rebellion never escapes. Afterwards, I am too tired, and I close my eyes for much longer. The white silk is there, but in those times, it always seems to be torn and shredded by some creature.

Thankfully, when I wake into the darkness that surrounds me, I know that once I sleep, the dream of white silk will transform. It is the only thing that changes and takes shape while I live in this strange simplicity.

My cycle continues, and if I try to remember a before—which, in truth, I only do when I think of what my future holds—there was nothing and nothing, and then a light, bright and warm, shined.

I did not want it and closed my eyes.