Uh, hello, Darkness, this one is for you.
Darkness, you are something, eh? A part of me? The pit of my soul. The unattended, the unwanted, the self-loathing part of me?
None of that. You are not a part of me. You are not even there. Nope, nothing called Darkness. Inside me, or in this matter, inside anyone else.
Yet, my fellow readers, you must be wondering if there is no Darkness, why am I writing about it? Oh, hell, I will come to that in a bit. But first thing first—
“There it is… eating you from the inside… making you sad. And in the end, you feel nothing.”
“Uh huh. Just a question, if nothing is what you feel, how can that nothingness hurt you?”
— A conversation I had with my arch enemy—me—on a melancholic night. And, there it was, the answer lingering in the question.
Confused? I know. But then again, we all are confused about something.
Almost a month since I wrote something productive. You can say I was seeking myself. Or asking myself this great question: “Who am I?”
The film, Kung Fu Panda 3, suggested that the great Oogway sat inside a cave for thirty years, asking this question to himself. I am lazier than Poo, the panda, and so I took the short cut. I started talking to myself. Most of the nights, I did. Staring at the ceiling, wandering between ifs and maybes.
Result? I met myself. And I came across all the bad things I have done. I understood them. You can conclude that I did not like meeting myself.
So yes, Darkness, it is the second cousin of hope, and opposite in characteristics too.
When we are in trouble, we look for hope. We pray. We wish. We share our problems. But when we do something bad, we put it on the dark hope: Darkness. We say it is our dark side that forced us to do this. We put it on someone else, just to take the burden off our shoulders. But we are grownups, and we need to take responsibilities for our actions.
So why am I writing about it? Because it has to be written. Once I wrote about proposal, which was highly appreciated. And tell you what? It wasn’t fiction. Not one dialogue. So, if I am writing the good me, I should write the wrong me, too, right?
Whatever I have ever done or will do, it has always been me or will be me. Not the Darkness. Not the Sadness. Just me.
But here is a fact: I have consciousness right now. Maybe a month later, when loneliness will gloss over the veneer of consciousness, I will start blaming my mistakes on Darkness. And I will write about it, again.