Black ink

A Story by Valley

Kind of just something that popped into my mind as I thought about depression and I basically threw the words out of my heads into a massive jumble.

Black. Black everywhere.

A suffocating and hazy amount of darkness, splotches of it staining hands, feet, ceilings, floors. Smeared and spewed over my face, matted in my hair. When I inhale, I am breathing in the heavy, pungent darkness. I cough, but I continue writing.

Each and every scroll is filled with words written by inky black darkness. The letters seem to twist in and out of position. I stare at them and I will them to remain clear. There is too much ink, too much painfully dark ink, making everything a twisting mass with no true meaning. Nothing but a Rorschach test.

Darkness does not contain any property without destroying that of another. This is the one truth I am able to understand when confined to my cogitations.

I am hacking now, coughing up globs of sticky black ink. I hold my hands over my mouth, but then the blackness just gushes through my nose. And when I cover that up, my ears. Then my eyes. Now I cannot see.

But I continue to write.

The words I am writing are smothering beneath the pitch black oils and inks. I’m writhing desperately, my lungs gasping and screaming and clawing and moaning in complete and utter agony. I can no longer breathe.

But I continue to write.

The darkness and obscurity has taken over every surface and every thought and every hope and every dream. Are my words even being written anymore? I do not know, but I still hold my pen with a shaky hand and move it over a sticky wet surface. I long to read my own words one day.

Is black the absence of color, or is it every color combined?