The next several posts will come from a writing project I am doing this summer. Enjoy or revile as you will.
--this is a rehashing of a bud of an idea starting during the first class.
In my chair I sit. In my room I contemplate. Out of the corner of my eye I see the blackness that grease-like seeps out through the crevices of my life, piling up as it oozes from the niches before it tumbles over under the pressure of the increasing dark pushing in behind it. The piles grow and cascade, grow and cascade as more and more finds its way around into my room. Calmly, in my chair the chill warmth of the blackness slowly climbs, enveloping my legs and the legs of my chair. Absorbing the memories of knee surgeries and the pain of wanting to run away.
Unmoving I am increasingly submerged in the ebony. Thinking my thoughts. Being my nothing. I remain seated. The blackness swallows my lap as the magma flow continues. Urges long gone. Extinquished, denied, or fulfilled.
It licks my fingertips resting on the arms of my chair. Morasses of regret of things that have slipped through my hands. Regrets of those left untouched. More blackness, less light. It's inexorable. Unblinking, stil I sit.
It consumes my abdomen and gnaws its way up my chest. The heartaches. The forlornness. The unpatchable cracks. Still it feeds.
It has found its way around me. How long before it finds its way into me where it will stay. Where it will live until I die and when they bury me, my carcass will feed it so it can wait, hibernate, and grow until it finds its next host. I can no longer tell if the ooze is still rising around me or if I am sinking into it. It laps my chin. I wonder if I should stand.