by Norman Bennett

Created on: January 30, 2010

For a moment… I wasn’t sure where I was. A gloomy familiarity hung in my mind, anticipating the recognition of this… existence. Something waiting, with deathly seriousness for my consciousness to emerge. It was a moment of reverse metamorphosis - as I unfolded into the sensations of my physicality and began recognizing the feelings of air and breath and thought and body.

These were familiar memories - confusion and dreadful wondering of this impending, inevitable, awkward awareness. Here I was again, in this wretched place. It was a sensation of lowering, of sinking, of seeping into myself - into my pain. My slightly furled brow began to give away my position. The sensation of the gentle pressing of my eyes in resistance to the coming pain begins to send a message to my state of being - a message of an unwanted presence - a reluctant opening of the flower of my consciousness. But behind this message was an overt knowledge that the flower would wilt immediately upon completion of this inverted bliss.

The subtleties begin to wane and my presence becomes known. Slowly, but instantly, I began to remember - it is morning, it is daytime, I am me. What must I do? What can I do? A relevant thought attempts to form, something specific to the morning, to the day, something substantial to cling to… but it’s too late. There’s no time to think a thought or formulate a plan or even be cognizant. The instant has passed. The deed is done… It’s too late. The recognition of who I am has done it’s hideous job. It has caused me to be noticed. It has brought me into this… place… this existence… this “dread“.

The dread has me now. It drew to me like a blanket of black emotion. Like a cloud as thick as the room, that came into me with the ease of air, and the heaviness of an anvil.

And that’s it - there’s no going back. It wears me and I wear it - as if one breathes in and the other breathes out. We are one. I belong to “it” - “it” does not belong to me. It is a presence. A presence that wants me - draws to me like a magnet - hovers and engulfs and waits and hangs.

The pain is the constant. It is the destination of all the other dark senses within this cloud of dread. Sadness… turns to pain. Hopelessness… turns to pain. The anxiety of the future… turns to pain.

My only resolve in this instant, this instant that floats in infinity, is

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