One-Hundred Days

We search for the light at the end of the tunnel when things are dark, but when they are bright, we turn our backs on it, and bask in the artificial warmth of fluorescent changing the milky coloration of our skin. We turn our backs on the things we search for when we are content with our lives, and these things turn their backs on us, hurt and ashamed.

We search for the light switch in the dark, hands fumbling over concrete. We are desperate and awakened with the dark surrounding us with every passing second. We are suffocated, searching for the light switch, hands fumbling and scraping against black concrete. We bring our palms to our eyes, covering the darkness with one we can control. As we sink to the floor, our collapsible legs folding beneath us, we feel the blood seeping through the scrapes on our palms.

We turn our backs on the light when we feel we are safe.
The light turns its back on us when it feels neglected.

We are surrounded by the darkness of a time well spent, the only darkness that does not crush our flooded lungs and struggling hearts. We find each other in the darkness and keep our hold, shivering and trembling with our breaths invisible in cold air.
We are content but we welcome the darkness. There is no light in our palms, no light in our sights. We are content shivering in the darkness and the light is content watching from a comfortable distance.

We lay shivering in the darkness, stealing heat from each other, watching light as it floats away further and further into the distance.