Being Darko

I dream with my eyes open. Images flash before them like those on a cinema screen. Some whizz by so quickly that they are nothing but a haze of color while others, others move with devastating slowness. A life sized rabbit with a metallic face, the acrid smell of smoke from a blazing fire, an unexpected kiss in front of the school steps, manicured lawns, carefully crafted smiles, eyes that speak of deceit, school bells, cellar doors, a white haired hag tirelessly checking for mail, the iridescent liquid tunnel protruding from my chest, the pill bottle in my medicine cabinet, broken promises for a normal mind. My world. I suffocate on the virulence of my apathy, cling to the comfort and the dread of my aloneness.

It plays over and over and over again. All of it, every single last image, is colored by the darkness that resides in me, like a portrait in sepia. I cock my ear and listen to a haunting sound that reminds me the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had. And as the reel shifts in speed, as the sound echoes throughout the landscape of my soul, the prophetic rabbit, my truest friend, whispers warnings of what is just around the bend. Magnificent warnings that allow me to glimpse a parallel world where there is no fear and I am a God.