I wanted it to be a dream, the day that never was, a figment of my imagination only. I wanted it to be something no one recalled because it never happened, not really, and so it would never be a matter that arose in any conversation, anywhere.
I wanted it to be nothing, nothing at all. The kind that fell into the nothingness of an abyss of 3am and never woke up, was never spoken of. I wanted it to not have meaning or truth or substance or life. I wanted it to have nothing, so I said nothing.
I thought if I didn’t feed it, it would die. But the less I said, the more it kept hounding me, eating me alive, from inside. My organs were giving in, one at a time. And in silence, I had no tears left for crying. I was weak while it grew strong, and I didn’t know how to hold on.
I wanted to die, because I could no longer hide its impact. I was overwhelmed by the darkness and pain I toted around like an umbrella of dark, low-hanging clouds. Suffocated by this fog that wrapped me first like a comfy cloak then squeezed so tightly, my soul fell to the floor.
I needed it to go, or I would not survive this, could not, at this rate, in this state. I felt the guillotine marching towards me, with head bowed and eyes closed. That midnight black, so thick, it was soft to the touch. Eerie and untrustworthy, ready to take me.
I wanted, needed, hoped and wished and prayed, that it was never, but it was. And it did. And if I never turned around and confronted that monster, face to face, this would be another story, told by someone else, wishing it never was.