A Dark Corner

(Part 1)

One day, somewhere, somehow, I found myself in utter numbness, darkness and silence. It was dark, darker than anything I had ever known. The closest comparison I could think of was when you shut your eyes tightly, but even then, your other senses still function. Your imagination fills in the blanks with vague outlines of your surroundings, you will see some flickering or swirling patterns, and you feel pain in the periphery of your eyes as a result of squeezing.

But here? Nothing. No breathing. No sounds. No movement. No light. Just complete, bottomless black and absolute silence.

I wondered, am I in open space? Inside a room? In my bed, maybe? That seemed most likely… but I wasn’t sure. Could I be inside a POD or something? You know, those tiny sleeping pods at the airport, once I slept in one of those during my interconential travel. Maybe it’s that. Sleep deprivation can make people hallucinate.

After pausing for a second, I thought no, not inside an airport POD. I don’t remember going to one yesterday, or some days earlier. I don’t remember boarding a flight. But I don’t remember going to bed last night either, so fuck I don’t know where I am.

I tried to recall what happened. What brought me here? Surprisingly, my mind hesitated. There was a strange resistance from within, a thick fog of distraction keeping me from reaching the incident that landed me here. Absolutely no recollection at all, none, zero.

I tried moving my arms, legs, head, but nothing responded. Nothing moved. Or maybe… they did move, and I couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t tell. Maybe my central nervous system is somehow disconnected. That would explain the numbness. My high school-level anatomy knowledge has taught me that if the brain is severed from the body, there’s no sensation. No awareness. Just… stillness.

I paused for a moement to let go—of thoughts and emotions. I tried to switch off completely. Physically, I think I already had. I just wanted to give my mind a break. I succeeded…but only for a few seconds. Gosh! my attention span might be shorter than a mosquito’s, I snap. I was right back into it again.

I thought for a second. Am I in a dream? am I dreaming?

oh! yes, this is a dream, definitely a dream. One of those dreams where you try to move but can’t. The kind where you wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. It must be a variation of that same dream. You know, anything can happen in a dream, and dreams can have layers and directions and whatnot. Imagination too has those. I’ve tried, many times, to dissect the difference between dreams and imaginations, only to conclude, partially, that maybe there isn’t one. Maybe they are the same apart from the state of experiencere. And here, I am the experiencere but with absolutely no physical context. So this must be a dream.

Assuming this was a dream, I waited for the climax, the breaking point where I would snap awake, and expected everything will go back to normal.

But… it didn’t come, no climax, and no snap back to reality.

Then something slowly started to dawn on me. In past dreams, especially those sleep paralysis ones, I was never fully conscious. In fact, in almost all of my dreams, I was never truly conscious. During those paralysis episodes, I would try to scream without success. A shadowy figure, like a ghost, would creep in, terrifying me. And always in the dark. I’d run, hide, struggle, cry out—mostly for my mom—but never succeed. Then I’d wake up, soaked in sweat, breathless, and relieved. God, I hate those dreams. I am sure you must have experienced them as well.

But this… this was different. Not like one of those.

I was conscious. I wasn’t struggling. I wasn’t screaming. I was calm. Calm like solemn rivers, like trees swaying gently, like birds mid-flight, like mountains unmoved by storms. This was not a dream and definitely not sleep paralysis.

Where the hell am I? how the fuck I ended up here, whatever this is?

Right then, I experienced the same resistance. Same fog. My mind wouldn’t let think the events that brought me here. Infinite distractions, like invisible walls. I tried so hard—but I couldn’t remember, today, yesterday or even incidents, or conversation, or encounterer that may happened before I was sucked into this nothingness.

But I did remember who I was—my home, my family, my brothers and sisters, my wife, my cat, my friends, and my experiences-not recent ones though. I just couldn’t remember today. Or yesterday. Or the chain of events from the past few... days or… months or… years.

How long had I been here?

Absolutely no idea.

(I paused for a few seconds)

Am I… dead?

No. No, no, no no nooooo.

It can’t be true. I don’t want to think that yet.

(I paused for a moment again, just the way I used to when taking a deep breath)

But… am I?

Is this what it feels like when we die?

No. No, no no no noooooo, fuck no, I yelled.

I’m not ready to conclude I am dead. Not until I’d ruled out every other possibility of being alive. I am sure I am not dead.

(There was a strong sense of denial from within)

But the thought lingered. And with it, a slow fear began to seep in—fear of dying, fear of loosing everything, and fear of never being able to go back to again.

(I have had several experiences of fear, but fear of death compares to none. It sinks you. A jolt of cold passes through every single cell of a body. It is close to the bodily experience of the soul getting detached while still being conscious. Yes, I had zero physical sense, but my mind was still capable of stimulating the experiences, and it did for a moment)

How could I possibly be dead while being conscious? Isn’t being alive about being conscious? At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.

A surreal sense of loss—of detachment—rippled through me again. As if a invisible sword, swinging through me and breaking into peaces, one at a time, into hundereds and thousands of pieces. I was right there, helplessly watching my own disintegration.

I paused with an anguish.

Have I lost her? My wife?

My cat?

My parents? My home?

No. No. No. Fuck no. I screamed again.

Not like this. I can’t be dead. I can’t. This is just… I don’t know, something else. I’m still there. I’m still here. I’m with them. They’re with me. No. Not yet. Not now. I know life is merciless, but not to this degree. Not to the point that I can’t even remember my last moments with them.

I paused for a moment, this was the only way for me to break my surrowful train of thought. I stopped thinking.

This time, I managed to shut down my mind a bit longer. My attention span got longer—maybe by a few more seconds. Long enough to escape the abyss of loss. The mind is such a chaotic, relentless thing. It can spin a million thoughts in seconds. It can break the very fundamental laws of physics by traveling faster than the speed of light.

After talking myself away from the idea of death, I clung to another: maybe I’m in a coma. Maybe there was some terrible accident. One I can’t remember. And now I’m being treated. It’s possible. I’ve heard numerious stories of coma patients feeling something similar—disconnected from their bodies, floating somewhere between soul and sensation.

You know, some of those coma stories are wild. Like, the other day, or maybe some other time in the past, I heard an elderly person say they saw God. A blinding light. Voices. Warmth. All that mystical stuff.

Bullshit.

I’ve been in this state, I don’t know how long, and haven’t seen a single damn beam of light. Not even a flicker. And honestly, I’m not even sure I have eyes anymore to see such a thing, if it did happen. If God is on his way, he better hurry. I wouldn’t know unless He yells in my ear—and even then, who’s to say I have ears?

I cut the distractions and came back to the coma thing again.

Yes, I could be in a coma. Maybe I had a stroke. I remember telling my wife once—

“Love, let’s be real for a moment. What’s the first thing you do when there’s an emergency?”

“What kind of emergency?” she asked.

“Any kind.”

“What do you mean by any kind?”

(Damn, she can be so dumb sometimes.)

“I mean any kind of emergency, like a heart attack, an accident, a house on fire. Any.”

And she said, “I’ll try to save you in the best way I can.”

That was sweet. But I told her—“Baby, that’s all lovely and fulfilling. But honey, you gotta call 911 first. Ok? No matter what. Call 911 first.”

“Alright, alright, I got it. 911. 911 first.”

(I remember this conversation, driving around the Bay with her)

As soon as I think of her, the feeling of loss crept back in, fear blended into something heavier this time. It lasted longer.

Have I lost her? Am I not with her anymore? Won’t I ever see her again?

I screamed again, for the 4th time, No. No, noooooooooooooo!

No way this is happening, no way it happened. This can’t be true, it is not.

and 5th time, nooooooooooooo, no fuck no, God please have some mercy, no no!

She must have brought me to the hospital. Whatever happened, she must have called 911. I must be in a coma. Right now. Right here. Sleeping, floating, whatever this is.

I wanted, needed, to believe that.

After struggling with my own emotion and neglecting other possibilities, I succeded in convincing myself that I was in coma.

I built that idea up so strongly, it felt real. I was convinced: “I’m in a coma”

That’s the mind’s magic, isn’t it? You can change your perception, your entire reality, and yourself by clinging to a belief. And especially for someone like me, a simple human not driven by ambition or faith, I was scared. Terrified of losing everything.

So I clung. I clung to the hope that I was in a coma because that meant I could wake up. I could go back. I could hug her, tell her how much I love her—everything I’ve ever wanted to say. Things I’d held back. Things I was too proud or too distracted to say before.

God, I just want to live. I just want to go back. Please have mercy on me.

But mercy didn’t show up for me. God didn’t wake me.

Slowly, I sank back into reality, my new reality.

I paused.

“This isn’t a coma”

Coma patients aren’t supposed to be conscious, not like this. Not this aware. Not this present. I’m not just vaguely aware, I’m vividly aware. I’m thinking. I’m asking questions. I’m remembering. I’m forming thoughts, feeling emotions. I have memories. I have fear. I have longing.

Coma patients don’t feel like this.

But I do.

Which means… I don’t know what this is.

I’m not in a coma.

I’m not dead or no way am I believing that.

I’m not dreaming.

I’m… nowhere. And yet, I’m fully, terrifyingly conscious.

(I paused again, my span was getting longer, maybe my mind was getting tired but for whatever reason I was able to pause my mind for longer and longer)

In thouse pause, I desperately waited. For anything. A voice. A sound. A hand on my shoulder. A knock on the door, if I was in a room, a beam of light, a thin brezee anyting. A hiss of hydraulics, if I was in one of those sci-fi pods. Cryogenics, maybe. Waking up after a thousand years. That would be cool, if I didn’t have a family I need to go back to. But I do.

I have a wife. A cat. A home. A life. I love all of it. It’s not time to vanish from them. It’s not.

Hope wasn’t dead yet. I wasn’t accepting this grief. Not even close.

I was in deep, absolute denial.

I refused to believe anything bad had happened. Someone would find me. Someone would wake me up. I was sure of it. I just didn’t know when. As soon as they found out I was alive, they’d bring me back. I was certain. Certainty was a manifestation of my hope, and but it was strong.

I stopped thinking, this time, I was able to pause even longer.

Time must have passed. A lot, maybe. So, I decided to sleep and let the consequence wake me up.

Am I hungry? I thought. I always used to eat something before going to bed.

I mean… no. Obviously not hungry. I couldn’t feel my stomach. I didn’t even know if I had a stomach. But the idea of hunger was there. I knew it was fake sense of hunger, a phantom one.

I decided to shut down. Try to sleep. I hoped, prayed that when I woke up, I wouldn’t be here.

I tried to sleep for hours. It was like one of those time when you toss and turn and try, and keep trying.

But I couldn’t sleep.

Maybe I was already asleep. How do you fall asleep when you’re just… a mind? The mind never sleeps. Maybe that’s all I am now. A mind. Nobody. No dead cells to repair. No bones to rest. No dreams to dream. No fucking physical structure at all.

So what’s the point of sleep?

Still, I tried.

Again.

And again.

Nothing worked.

I couldn’t even toss and turn. How could I? There’s no body to toss. No muscles. No limbs. No weight.

Tossing. Turning. Beds. Pillows. Sleep. Breath. Skin.

God, I had all those things. My whole life. And I took them for granted.

I screamed. I cried. I hoped somebody, something, no matter dead or alive would hear me out.

“God. My dear God… can you please let me experience those things one more time? Can you please let me sleep next to my wife one last time? I want to feel my pillow. I want to feel her warmth. I want to talk to her—say everything I’ve ever held back. I want to laugh with her. Cry with her. Touch her.”

“She’s the one who could put me to sleep, God. Her touch is peace. Bliss. She’s all I want.”

“If you’ve decided to switch me off forever, just let me go back once. Please, can you”

“Let me see my parents. Just once. Let me say the things I never said. That I’m thankful. That I love them. That I care. That I wanted to give them everything. That I tried. Please.”

The sensation of loss was growing bigger and bigger. The fear, uncontainable. My strong, stubborn denial… was starting to crack.

Fuck, God… are you even listening?

I need someone, anyone, to talk to. And if You won’t let me speak to anyone else… then you need to listen to me. Do you hear me?

Can You?

Of course not. You never listen to anyone. Millions of people scream through hunger, disease, and war. You don’t listen to them. Why would You listen to me?

I was stranded, between denial, anger, sorrow, and sheer emotional collapse. Pain. I could feel it. Not physically—but mentally. Pain in the way your soul clenches and screams in a soundless place.

I didn’t want this. I don’t want this.

I want to go back. I need to go back. I command you to take me back.

I want to pick up my cat. I want to hold her close. She’s all softness and comfort and need. And there were so many things I had to do for her—so many I didn’t. I was supposed to take her to the vet. She had hyperpigmentation in her right eye, and I hadn’t yet ruled out melanoma. I was supposed to make sure she was okay. I was supposed to take care of her.

I screamed again. I cried harder and harder.

“God—please. Please just let me go back once. I swear I’ll make it quick. I’ll do what I need to do and come back, if You want. Just let me see them. Just once.”

But there was no response. As there was none for millions of people who had called him of grif.

No whisper. No warmth. No presence.

Just… nothing.

Because the void doesn’t speak.

Void doesn’t answer.

Silence is the absence of voice.

And darkness is the absence of light.

No one heard me.

No one responded.

I was left stranded. Alone.

In this infinite, hollow abyss.

And my numbness was getting bigger and bigger.