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His dreams hold no feeling. No emotion, no touch. Darkness though... they do contain darkness. // Oneshot: drabble-like.
Oh and hey, it's my first story here...!
And it's not finished...
And will probably stay that way.
Aaaand it's written in the POV of a guy... I'm not entirely sure why though.
Despite all this... enjoy?
Sensations of Nothing
- by Peripheral-Luck
His dreams hold no feeling.
No emotion, no touch. The ability to even react fails him in these dreamscapes.
Darkness though. They do contain darkness.
Darker than black and thicker than blood; it's a consuming cloud of dark. So suffocating and overbearing it's almost a feeling. Almost. But it's never quite strong enough to be perceived as a feeling, it's simply become a sensation of nothing. Never of something.
But of what, he can't tell.
The dreams are hollow and seemingly endless. When he awakes he's dazed and unaware, as though the darkness has clouded his mind. Aside from this, he tells himself the dreams don't affect him at all. He feels nothing afterwards, except a familiar blur.
He's not sure why he feels the need to reassure himself that these dreams don't affect him.
He never feels anything afterwards.
He knows this.
(So why does he need to tell himself he doesn't?)
When he does feel something, he's awake. Usually cocooned in his bed and shrouded in an early morning haze. It's these mornings he hates the most.
Feelings of doubt cloak his mind, overshadowing the dark from his dreams with a foggy light, which is far more frightening than the dark from his dreamscapes. The light clears his mind, allows him to think easily. And what crosses his mind scares him.
(Doubts, fears, regrets.)
He feels enlightened, aware.
Far more aware than he'd like to be.
(Was he wrong?)
He feels as though he's on the precipice of an epiphany, swaying dangerously on the edge, but never tipping either way. Always trembling at that fine edge.
It's close, too close.
He's afraid to tip over. Afraid of what's on the other side and afraid of the fall.
Would it be a long plummet? Never-ending? Would it leave him suspended and numb; forever falling and unreachable?
He doesn't know.
(He's not used to not knowing.)
So he doesn't try to find out.
Despite the precarious position of the line he sways on, he decides to stay put. Never tipping to either side. It seems the safest place for the time being. Far safer than the drop that awaits him.
So he huddles back further into his blankets, where it's warm and dark, and lets the dark cloud overshadow any light that tries to break in.
He's sure nobody understands his emotions. How could they? He doesn't himself.
He's sure no-one even knows he feels these things.
(Or rather the things he doesn't feel.)
At least, he hopes not. He cant grasp the thought that someone might understand him on such a personal level.
(He doesn't want to.)
It's an unnerving and wholly disturbing notion. Yet somehow endlessly fascinating.
To have someone understand and know the innermost workings of your mind; it's a fanciful thought. One that prompts him to ponder the delicate intimacy that would spout from such an intricate and fragile bond.
And it scares him.
It scares him because he thinks he might know someone like that. Someone who could be completely apt in unravelling the puzzle that is his mind. He's not sure he wants that. To let someone in in such a way; it would require momentous trust.
Something he feels he couldn't ever find in anyone.
(Especially not her.)
No. That person could never truly understand him or his mind.
(He wouldn't allow it.)
How could he form such a trust like that, when he first founded a bond with her built on complete mistrust?
Sometimes he wishes he could fly.
He knows it's a foolish and completely nonsensical thought. But still, the notion remains.
Despite the obvious ideal of flying, he thinks he might feel this way because of his dreams; both the dreams by night and the hazy delusions in the early hours.
To break past dark clouds and bright light; it seems too fantastical and unrealistic - much too far out of reach.
(But hasn't he always been one for ideology?)
Yet he can't help but hope for this; this completely hopeless fantasy.
He's not completely sure when his brain started turning his dreams and thoughts into metaphors.
(Maybe it always did.)
But somehow the theory seems sound.
Literal flying would force him through the metaphoric clouds of his mind; a completely illogical thought in an ordinary mind, but a perfectly logical want in a brilliant mind.
Perhaps insanity was needed for such astounding brilliance?
(Or maybe insanity and brilliance weren't that far a leap from another?)
. ----- Besides,
. ----------- if he could fly,
. -------------------- he'd never need to fear the fall.
Okay yeah - so that's it. I'm happy with it... mostly. Some parts I'm pretty ify about but yeah. I'd really appreciate feedback! Constructive or otherwise - rating would be nice too :)
I've also been experimenting a lot lately with paragraphing, italics, brackets and indents and the way it affects the mood of the piece and how it changes the way people read it. I'm curious to see what you think about that as well.
Thanks for reading!