#sarimmftdv

It is as though every second of every single moment, is recorded within your mind.

That every single instant, is captured within your memory, and some internal function sorts through the film later.

My mind, right before that day, was photogenic in the purest way.

Nothing forgotten, nothing sorted out.

How I wish it wasn't.

It matters not how infinite your memory may be, if you cannot cycle through it's contents.

Consider a library, that is your memory. For someone truly photogenic, this library is infinite. For most, the labelling and sorting is immaculate enough, to allow for easy access to each and every memory...

But what if there are too many books to sort?

Infinite books of nothing, blank books of unlimited blackness. Every moment is recorded, so not one moment of that hell was forgotten... leaving my memory less photogenic, and more hindered than ever.

Isolation... it's the cruelest form of punishment. To isolate someone so completely, that they begin losing their sense of humanity, lose touch with themselves.

Solitary confinement was deemed too cruel for many prisons, white room isolation wards are seen as truly despicable conditions for humans... and yet none hold a candle to this.

Such absolute isolation, such utter complete destruction of stimuli and interaction, that every single moment feels like an eternity.

They say even days in forced isolation can cause permanent psychological damage, and that extended periods are likely to lead to irreversible insanity.

Insanity, madness... words to describe the same thing; the complete destruction of mental clarity, the loss of ones own conscience.

It is believed that in the worst of conditions, the most horrific experiences, that madness is a protective shield; a way for the mind to permanently save itself from fully realising it's own decline.

It was dark... darker than I could have imagined was possible.

Darker than the deepest pits of the earth, darker than the purest black paint on an artists palette.

No statements could ever come close to describing it, no poetic combination of flowery words, would be able to even scratch the very peak of the blackness that surrounded me...

Darkness... more darkness.

I suppose even calling it darkness would be an insult to it.

Darkness implies concealment, implies the existence of something; something that has since been covered, made impossible to see...