Friday night .
The wind blew, the roof rattled and the windows snapped back and forth against their frames; another storm, another night waiting for him to come. I arrived back at my place, my ghost, the one of Steven, wasn't about, my night on the town more influential than expected. I'd forgotten to take my efexor and I've been drinking heavily. I could hear him yapping, barking at me from the shadows. The black dog was back.
I can't turn on the lights, don't want to, I don't want to see the mess I am in, the mess of my home. If I turn on the light will the black dog pounce? Will he try to rip out my throat? I hide as the wind howls. I can see the tree in my garden waving under the street light, it bends and I wonder will it break, or be ripped from the ground. Sitting on the floor, a bottle in my hand, I wonder if the black dog storm will rip me from the world. Or will I break under the strain beforehand?
This is the darkness, the one I fear tonight and fear everytime my mood drops well below that of well adjusted types. I know the darkness isn't real, I know I am loved, respected, but knowing isn't the same as feeling. Truth against truth is not a winning combination.
I close my eyes, hug my knees and try to think good thoughts. The black dog still barks, the wind still blows and like the rain against the windows I begin to cry.
