The prison of light
The light lay heavy on her. She was locked up in the prison of light. White light on white walls. She longed for darkness, for a chance to move away from the light. The light did not let her dream. It didn’t let her pretend she was somewhere else. Or that she was someone else.
It was all there for her to see. Her imprisonment. Her lost life. Her helplessness. She was drowning in light and dying a slow, quiet, suffocating death. Her imagination deserted her. The light flushed it out of her being. Burning in the light inside her, she wasn’t sure she could take the torment any more. The light consumed her, defeated her, crushed the darkness she once feared but now yearned for. Closing her eyes, she would try to pretend it was dark, but she couldn’t. The light would not let go of her.
The boundary between sleep and wakefulness dissolved in that eternal deluge of light. She didn’t know if she was awake or asleep. She had no clue what time of the day it was, nor what time of the year. She tried to keep count when she was first locked up, but couldn’t keep up with it after a while. She had lost all hope of ever being in the dark again. She was cursed with light.
There are two doors on opposite walls. She doesn’t know what lies behind them. She tries knocking but no one ever answers. She wonders if there are any answers.
She explores corners of the walls, tries to talk them out of their stupor. To dance with them. Even hug them. But walls don’t hug anyone back. They don’t dance either. She clings to them, but there’s nothing to hold on to, even as she desperately tries to find a third dimension, one of meaning, in the two dimensions of unfeeling walls. The silence between her and the walls was one of companionship, though. She wanted to tell them her story, and listen to theirs too. But no stories were shared. Only silence.
She rolls on to the floor, tired of cajoling walls to dance with her, and buries her head in her shadow — a little piece of darkness she could still call her own.