the book
the book is a beautiful thing.
it is new, yet
old-fashioned.
faded and battered
artfully.
the book is
art.
vibrant brown
like earth
with some kind of
filter.
edited earth.
it is simple, no clasp.
no patterns embossed
on the cover.
open it.
open it to creamy pages
waiting
eager
for the press of the pen.
Oh. I forgot the pen.
the pen
the pen is
nothing special.
an ink pen
a scratchy nib
it never seems to run out.
the pen is
nothing special.
but the ink is.
purple.
not a showy purple
like royalty.
deep purple
indigo
blue-purple
what midnight should look like.
or secrets.
dark ones
that could break people
by slipping free.
I must be one of the darkest secrets. Sometimes I imagine my mind as pen ink, spilling onto the floor as I desperately try to mop it up, to push it back together. The mark of the dark thing, the thing in the dark. You have felt it, we all have. Maybe you can feel it now, its hook inside you. It tears, and we all spill.
I cannot write, I feel it watching. It hangs in the air like fog, a cloud fallen from the lofty heights of the sky. Good night, or morning, or afternoon. I have no sense of time. Or space. I turn my head to the blank wall, still on the floor, and hug my book. Sleeping on beds is for weaklings. Actually, so is sleep. Who needs it? Not me, certainly. I could lie here and stare at this wall all night long...
*whispers next to your ear* You see that little star? You want to press it, right? Right?
YOU ARE READING
To Name The Dark
قصص عامةIn our world, a girl called Thea wakes in a blank white cell. She remembers everything, but she distracts herself from the awful truth in the hope that it will disappear. In a desert where the sand is red and the rules have shattered, Hope Soldiers...
