It would be more relevant to portray sickness as a man, for men are more prone to demise. This kills. It’s progression is slow, enduring and painful and yet this place becomes comforting, familiar and inviting. It’s allure is like any other drug in the beginning. Having the aptitude to allow your mind to take you to realms within you that most people will never find nor dare, is a seductive, enlightening masochism. After a taste, you wonder if you could acquire more in this place, and as time passes, you begin to visit without even realising. It becomes an innate reaction. You awake from the mass of blackness and realise this supposed paradise of self-awareness has become a treacherous, thorn riddled, quick-sand.
We visit this un-reality, to escape real-ality. Those consumed to the point of expiration cannot fit this life. The desperation for change in a static gloom is hopeless, unbearable and insurmountable. These are hearts so desperate for answers and change, incapable of expending outwards and destined to implode, creating a place where anything is possible. This world, engulfing and safe, brings answers, insight and meaning. Yet in time, you realise the welcome of this haven comes at a deceiving price.
As the dust settles, the glare fades and focus regained, what once was basic recognition of the periphery, grows awareness that the end is not solid, yet a dark veil enticing need of discovery. Behind this veil awaits misery, yet the intrepid explorer advances gingerly through the shroud, like a sailor to mermaid’s song.