VOID CHAMBER

All I want is a warm, dark room where I am naked, feeling nothing but the cry of my heart and the claws gripping my chest. I can see nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing. Until I become nothing.

It is a chamber no one can enter, no one can hear the noises from within. They are not noises to be heard. They are screams to be felt from the outside.

I am not in such a chamber. The only one is too far away, filled still with light and sound and many dangers. So I create, with the ache of my heart, a chamber of my own, with nothing but my body.

The outside world is beginning to fade. I can no longer sense to cold of the outside. Rather, I feel myself beginning to crumble, my bones dissolving until there is only my soul, concave in the grip of my demons, being wrenched apart as it solidifies into the only thing left of me. And I want nothing but to cry until I drown, to disappear into the mist.

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It is beginning. It is the beginning of the end. You listen to the roaring in your head, the crashing of the water beginning to drown out the roaring in your mind. The salty waters coursing from your eyes are only becoming a lake, purifying you in a fire ignited from your own sorrows. Your will has all but dissolved, and as the floodwaters rise you begin to disappear, exactly the way you wished and you are drowning, choking on the poisons extracted from your soul. You do not struggle. You are drowning, drowning, until the voices are quiet and the claws are gone.

They finally find the box. It is the steely glass tank you made for yourself, clear to those who viewed the spectacle and thought nothing of it, impenetrable to those who desperately tried to break in. It is devoid of life now, cold and light inside, just the opposite of the way you created it. Or rather, it created itself.

They open the chamber now, that your will is gone and can no longer hold it shut. And they pull your body from it, limp and sodden, the limbs already turning grey and the soul gone. They stare at it, watching in shock and disbelief as it crumbles in their hands from all the toxins released through the waters while you still existed.

The body may be dust, but the soul is still very well alive and drifting, lost, into a lost town for unanchored souls, where you will remain indefinitely, waiting to be sent either to eternal damnation or eternal dull bliss with the choice to try again for a tiny island where, finally, you may be able to find happiness. Or, in the case of a hung jury, stay here forever until you forget everything, vanishing into a field of earth-skimming clouds and waving grasses.

They can't see you, hear you, find you, sense you at all. You can't either. And you begin to question things.

But maybe it is better this way, isn't it?