The Abyss

I stood on the edge of the Abyss; that black night of the soul that never ends. I've heard others speak of it, terrified whispers, half-mad memories. I've heard it called a heavy black cloud that settles on you, rides you like a mantle, like a parasitic beast.

But that is not what it is.

It's like descending into Hell. Like leaving the world of light and air, sacrificing oxygen; it is like drowning in a lake of tar, black; it steals all light and hope; it rolls over you in waves of disaster, flows down your throat, into your lungs. You struggle to escape and then all of a sudden, a dull thudding sudden, you realize that you have adapted to this alien landscape that swallows light. You're breathing tar, it fills your lungs and heart and veins with viscous black night. You're cold and dead. Rock hard stone. Each breath brings pain and yet you can’t stop breathing. You want to.

But you can’t.

This black death is not death.

It is eternity. The dark life that never ends. It is the pit of despair.

And there is only one way to escape.

One drop of red blood. It cuts through the black monster night, it slices like a warrior blade through the unending river of black tar. It cuts all the way through to the heart of your soul.

Hope. Like the pulse of a distant tribal drum.

He calls. Pierced hands reach into the bottomless black.

He pulls. One drop of red. It stains the universe.

It changes everything.


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