I am a coward, no doubt about it, such a coward. Who would have thought? Not I. I would have sworn I am very courageous. There it is.
I have to own up to it. I could not go through the black. I was afraid.
I was very afraid. I was afraid of many things and many voices.
There were no images. There was no knowledge. There was only the black. The black and Hell, and the voices that came and went.
I could hear Hell’s voice. I could hear mine. I could hear the other voice. There was a Michelle standing next to me, looking down at me, shaking her head and saying, “You are wasting his time. You are making all this up. You are being ridiculous. You are being foolish.
You have to stop this.”
I remember saying, “I don’t want to remember,” yet I would swear that is not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say what the other Michelle was saying. “I don’t want to remember” was not there until I said it. Then it was very there. “I don’t want to remember,” said the Michelle on the table. Said coward Michelle.
I am wasting Hell’s time
He certainly does not do or say anything to indicate that I am.
I am making all this up
Why then did I shake so much afterwards? In spite of the fact that I did not go through the black? I can’t call it a black wall or a black curtain or a black whatever, for I do not know what the black is. I could call it ‘a black fog,’ if there was such a thing, or just a place where there is no light, which might be more accurate. A place in my consciousness where light does not shine could be the proper name.
Now I sound like Treebeard.