I go looking for a space inside myself where I’m not afraid of the world. But it’s all darkness. It’s all darkness behind closed eyelids. And the dark frightens me. It’s home of the depths and drownings. It’s desolation at its most extreme and it’s always here. Even through the blinding rays of the sun comes darkness creeping as spots in my visual field, slowly deteriorating the light that shines on the leaves around me. They become black trees, black mountains, black crows in the air. They become hidden against a dark background once such a calming blue, as if a volcano had erupted not two miles to the west; as if lightning was the world’s substitute for the burned-out sun, and we had to make those half-seconds count for days worth of light; as if winter meant something deeper and colder; as if a season was a century; as if light was lost. And it feels like I’m fainting. And it feels like I’m faking. And the earth is on fire at minus twenty degrees. My feet are melting. My legs are melting. My heart is forever melting. And my head is just there, freezing, watching me disappear. Knowing full well that I’m doing this to myself.