I laid on my bedroom floor and sunk my face into my elbow. There was nothing. No sound. No movement. There was Blackness. I was engulfed, I did not feel my heart and I did not feel my lungs. Time went on, unscathed, but I remained in the Black. I do not know anything. I do not know who came in my room. I do not know what they said. I do not know what I said. The jarring crash of a constant sound kept pulling me away. Every labored second time bore forth, I was unaware. I had gone somewhere so far that I was nowhere. The dust lined the back of my throat. Then I knew everything. I desperately wandered around looking for the Black. I had no provision but the Black. I had been unaware. Perfectly unaware. But I could not find the Black. So I was aware: no salt ever was so tasteless, no liquid was ever so dry. No pain was ever so miniscule, no mucus was ever so breathable. No, there was nothing. Not in the Black.This prejection of perfection, I could not emulate. I close my eyes and there was black. It had ears, a mout, eyes, a nose, and touch. There was a pit in the middle of my soul, somewhere between the bottom of my rib cage and my pants. I tried to find the Black there, but it was gone. Instead there was grinding and crashing. There was color. There was noise. I was refusing to really acknowledge it. There was aching and burning; there was pressure and banging. There was blue and there were barbells. There was a bed; a Bible and many books. There were bandaids and bottles and bows and bespeckled things. There was a blue monster and blue shirt. There was blue gatorade and black cords, and there was black shoes and black clothes. But there was no Black. There was brokeness and bruises; beige and bumps.There was a bunny and beauty products; a balustrade and a bathroom door. But there was nothing, and with it was no Black.