Here, in this temple of light, they yearn for darkness. Blinding against the white, an oddity of survivors kept prison by their own salvation. The dark is death. Formless monstrosities prowl it's colourless depths. They rip and rend flesh as easy as a child plucks the wings of a butterfly. Predators, perhaps. Or mindless forces. Their motivations are as shapeless as their bodies.
And so; hard walls, bright lights, no sight. Just the watery outline of the people around you, hunched under the peerless pressure of the photons. Peerless, except perhaps for its cousin outside. Vision blotted in both worlds. Existence in one, annihilation in the other.
Too bright to sleep. Or think. Or eat. But the fear keeps them here, huddled in perpetuity. Flavourless wads of sustenance. No conversation. Or music. Or dance. Just life, flat and eternal.
Would they find the will to dare the dark? Hard to say. What is known is false. Paradise known is a paradise lost.
Paddy Dobson
17th October 2020