Darkness - by Fatima Akbar

Darkness has a world of its own. You’re scared of it because you fear the unknown. You like having control. You like knowing what’s next. You like to anticipate the best, but in the end, we all have to let fate do the rest.

It blinds your sense of seeing, your other senses heighten. You feel everything to an extreme extent then you finally initiate to lighten.

You were trembling and shuddering under this absurd gloominess. And then you find yourself settling to the now-familiar seaminess. But does that not represent what the world is about? Not knowing what is to come after, having no dominance over most situations, submitting to the unknown; to fate.

So won’t it be safe to say that the world represents a kind of darkness of its own? One so dingy and dense that it has penetrated through the skins of most, reaching so far and deep that it has inundated their souls. One way or another, we’re all slaves to our own darknesses, we represent it.

Every individual’s perspective of seeing the darkness that they represent varies. An enormous number of them are content with it, with the way it gives them a sense of belonging, they feel like they’re at home. They seek comfort in it and gain satisfaction knowing that from other people’s views, they’re just a plain black canvas, painted of a thick, muddy black colour, one with so many various layers that it would take an eternity, or more, to scrape the paint off of the canvas, all to discover that it hid more black, more darkness beneath.

Many people wonder why the people who portray this type of darkness are the way they are. What pushed them to a point where they had to put on a facade? One in which they have installed a dense curtain of black, separating themselves from this world? Or at least putting a barrier between themselves, their true selves, and the world. The most usual answer would be, due to their past experiences. These individuals have likely been accidentally moulded into being this way. Life threw its adversities their way and they probably reached out, begged for help, screaming to be pulled out from that bottomless pit that keeps drowning them, into nothingness.

Convulsing with fear, unrhythmic heart palpitations, quivering hands reaching out as far as my hands allow. Beseeching to be held, yearning to have the warmth of someone’s hand pull me out, from this cold, eerie place that I have entrapped myself into.