I am sitting inside a dark room. Invisible to the demons, invisible to my enemies and invisible to me. Remember those times when we were kids, we used to be scared of the dark? That's because it's one of those few moments in live when we feel our body is non-existent, our pure soul, our conscience or our voice or whatever is left free to the vast depth of the pitch dark surroundings. In darkness we don't know anything, anything can strike us, from anywhere. Just like free fall or a 100 kmph on a bike along a hair pin bend. The sheer fear of our soul getting hurt from the kinetics in the dark matter. Pitch black, one mile high in the sky and one foot below the ground. Our insides flame, like those moments when you know that you'd be hurt. In darkness we don't have a sense of beauty, we don't have a sense of ourselves, it's just "us". That's the pure world where you can be you, with your fears and with those millions of cockroaches scurrying around. 
                                                          
                                     What do you remember of the days before your birth? Nothing. Darkness maybe. What do you think about the moments after your death? What do you see? Darkness. Those dreams of free fall, those nightmares, describe them. Darkness. A sign of emotional purity. It's the answer to who we are. It's not a sense of being lost, it's being found. Like those prayers we make when we're down, hopeless. What do you remember? Darkness. Rejuvenation. Sleep. Orgasm. What's the color? I don't know, it's black, well, no dark! It's the reason for which you're living. Light misleads you, showing mirages, false hopes and divine epiphanies. Light. The 'fastest' particle in the universe takes you through life in seventy years, probably more or less. There's no sense of time in darkness, there's no speed but there is the sense of being you, the conquest for being eternal. That's in darkness. 

                                    The world you think you live in is not the world you ought to live in. I like this thought of all my loved ones being dead, leaving me alone. Only me. Philip E.Philip. That's the sense of emptiness, the sadness; these feelings push you deeper against time. I killed my persona, the aura that surrounded 'me'. That 'free soul' you try to experience through alcohol or drugs has no meaning unless you kick your sentimentality. Light is the connector, the vice, the bad factor that brings in impurity. A whisky shot in the darkness, a peg gulped down when your lungs are filled with thick marijuana smoke. You're the free being, you're afraid, close your eyes. Those white patterns, that's pain in the insides. Don't exhale, have another peg instead. A peg of raw whisky. Something aches, you can't even feel your soul, you can't feel yourself. Cough it out, there's still smoke inside your lungs. It'll cause cancer, but does it matter when you're going to live for an eternity? Close your eyes, those floating white rectangles and fleeting images. Open your eyes, nothing. Find the 'line' on the floor, snort it Hold your cigarette near your nostril and take a deep breath. That last sense of being 'you' falls. It's tripping. Your head. Your body. Well, there's nothing now, that real piece of you is about to be born. 
         
                                  The disorientation when you know that you don't have anyone, everyone's dead. Cry. Not yet. There's half a quart of whisky left. Draw it down, wait, the ganja first. There's pain, not in you, but within you. Cry, as everyone's dead, cry because you're dead. Cry because you don't know anything, anymore. You're floating around Saturn's second ring. Your brother was raped. Who? Lick the blotters. Overdose. This is reality. That happiness of being you. A free soul in an unrestricted universe. Free to move anywhere, that fear of darkness, the music in a dying pig's squeal, the chirping, the insects. That's mind, that's reality. Happiness, just that  you forgot it. Snort. Snort more. Gulp the vodka. that's you. The moths, the crawling animals, that's reality. You're flying past gigantic planets. There's no form, only bubbling acid and hairy flies. You don't sense you, it's just like a vision. That's your soul. Your eyes say that you're in darkness, close your eyes - the patterns, the universe, the you. Open your eyes. Take that syringe and pierce your eyes with it. There's the universe shivering. Welcome, you're about to be born. Poke your eyes, yes, the right one now. Smoke the ganja, snort the cocaine. That's not pain. It's you, about to be born. There's no body, just you. More acid, take that syringe into your ear, slowly. You hear the sound, the giant spheres spinning. That's your voice, that's your soul, talking. Take in alcohol with smoke in your lungs. The universe is slow, yet beautiful. That sense of position, hovering around without meaning. That's you. That's what you hear. Those chants, callings, flashes and those massive insects. There's something left, a vacuum, something that's tearing you out. Like the time you cried when you were born. It’s going deeper. The vacuum, it’s pulling you deeper and deeper. The sound’s fading, the streaks of light in the darkness. Those colors. You aren’t blind; you just learned the right way to see. Gulp the poppers, more acid. 
                                     
                                               The trip’s not done yet. You’re eternal now. It’s been a long time. The vacuum’s pulling. The free fall. Move out. The other ear. Take the needle. The sound. That’s your birth. Don’t cry yet. Walk, walk around in the darkness. Go out, you won’t see a thing. Close your eyes, you will. You won’t see a thing, but you’re feeling your life. Jump. The free fall. You’re being born, you are. There’s light, there’s no more vacuum. Thump. That’s you, alive after a jump from the 63rd floor of your building. That’s you, immortal, with your true self and happiness. The people in the mirage think you’re dead. Not anymore. Happy Birthday! Oops! There’s no day here, no time. And you’ll always be happy. So it’s only, birth.