euananthony

Where are we going? The writer gazes into an inky black tunnel. Cats’ eyes punctuate its dark ceiling. Checkpoints and exit signs mark its walls. Somewhere in the distance is the end, is the light, but they cannot look at it directly, only glimpse it out of the corner of their eyes. Mischevious thing. It evades us the more we want it.

But the hand they hold is not there. It faded to dust long ago, abandoning this path for another. One that did not curve away with every step.

The tunnel shrinks. It pushes the writer onto their hands and knees. Come back. I cannot want this alone. But the dark does not answer. It has turned its back on them. What use are you without your light?