You like to drift in the dark.
You can see in the inky blackness, the blackness that might or might not be the colour of velvet, the squid ink that cocoons you. Twists and wraps itself around you. Sinew around viscera.
You touch the dark. Or is it that the dark touches you? You get the two confused. What texture is dark? Think about it. Is it like soot? Is it like a shard of coal? Dusty? Something there but not there? The blackness feels thin and dry to you, like gauze. Or grit in your mouth. Sometimes you see through it, but you won’t divulge what you see. You don’t want to frighten the children. You can see in the dark but it isn’t sight that enables you to see. It’s some other sense. You have more than five. Only some of you know how to use them all.
The dark rushes and roars and whispers to you. Do you hear it? Quiet! It murmurs while it soars, and you have to listen carefully. It’s obvious it talks to you. But you are getting ahead of yourself. Sigh. You should start at the beginning.
In the beginning you could only smell the darkness. Hearing it, tasting and feeling it, took time to learn. You were but a splintering. Born in blackness. When you slithered out the moons were baby’s fingernails. They were the first things you saw—apart from the dark, which was a welcome relief after all that brittle white light.