The darkness always come.
It’s the sunset of a dull, awfully dreary Sunday. It comes slowly, dragging the hours as though they weighed the weight of a thousand men. But it comes. Amidst the apathy, amidst the phlegm, amidst the usual, the lack of response, the lack of will to live, the lack of everything, it comes.
It comes quietly, without you noticing. And when you do, it’s already there. Sitting by your side, a weight that refuses to go, a darkness that clouds your mind, seizes your heart in a tight fist. Your lungs don’t work anymore; your breathing hurts, you feel dizzy and want nothing but to lie on your bed and never get up again.
It’s truly a sunset. You watch the hours go by, locked in your room because it’s the only place you feel safe. They pass both quickly and slowly, and your mind still hasn’t figured out how that could be possible. The days drag slowly, but the hours don’t. You keep your mind busy, so maybe, you come to terms, that’s it, that's why.
So you’re in your room in the silent of a warm Sunday. It’s hot outside, but you don’t feel like moving. It’s sunny, lively, the kids scream and laugh, their excited little voices irritate you to no end. It also makes you feel sorry for them. Their childhood will die one day, and soon enough they’ll be adults. Gloomy, unresponsive, apathetic adults just like you.
The voices stop at some point, gradually coming to a halt. The temperature is colder, the room, darker, and you have barely noticed the change. Everything is a shade of gray now. The walls once white, the sky, the light passing through the window. And then, you blink.
And you’re immersed in darkness. Can barely see your limbs, the hand in front of your face, the door, the window, the furniture. You’re blind. You’re blind and desperate, because you want to see again. It's a wistful, fragile truth that saddens you to the core: you don’t remember how colors look like now, but you want to, you need to, and yet you know you won't.
And it feels as though your life depended on it, because if you can’t see them, then what’s the point? This Sunday doesn’t come to an end. It keeps dragging and dragging, and it never goes away. It never stops. There’s no reason anymore, you just want to stop existing, stop breathing.
You want to die, you come to realize. And the thought scares you. You want to live, to be happy, to feel things, to see things, but in the end, nothing matters anymore. You don’t feel the same, for the longest time you haven’t felt the same. You were a little kid and already knew what loneliness and depression felt like.
With a weight on your chest, a burden on your shoulders, you realize, nothing is worth living. Not for you.
Not in this life.