On Darkness _
Lights Out = System Failure
My airways are working under capacity. As I breathe in, my head feels dizzy and my arms get numb.
I try to remember a college physiology class as I picture my insides, vividly. My trachea is a set of long, narrow straws bought in a 24/7 Chinese gift shop. They are held together by silver tape and enthousiasm. Accordingly to my mother and my grandfather, that’s the only thing that keeps our home country from falling apart. Tape still plays its part, but that’s a story for another time.
You could infer my family agrees on at least one thing, but they actually feel very differently about the same statement: she admires this way of thinking, while he despises it.
I’ve always been afraid of not getting enough air. It might be caused by lovely childhood memories, as I was in the habit of drowning until the age of 12.
In complete darkness my brain gives out a “system failure” signal and convinces my lungs there is no air left. It feels like being buried alive, with the room collapsing in your throat. And even as I hold my arms straight in front of me, my mind still refuses to compute that I am in a space with three dimensions.
In a pitch black room, I feel zero dimensions.
In silence, I stop believing in time.
Lights out = I’m dead
That might be why I empathize with androids so much… no EC*, no life.