YOU BRIGHTEN THE BLACKNESS

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THE COSMIC CYCLES
BRING US TOGETHER
ANEW

GREETINGS, ALL SQUIDKIND
ASSEMBLED HERE TO FEAST YOUR FILL
AND TELL YOUR TALES

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96 emanations on “YOU BRIGHTEN THE BLACKNESS”

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  11. The hospital smell clings to my clothes,
    a phantom scent of disinfectant and decay,
    even months after you’ve turned to ash.

    Your empty bed screams in the silence of our house,
    the indentation of your wasted body still pressed into the mattress
    like a ghost trying to hold on.

    I trace the rim of your favorite teacup,
    the one with the tiny chip you never let me fix,
    and my fingers come away cold,
    so cold,
    as if death has permanently settled in the porcelain.

    The pills spill from the orange bottle on your nightstand,
    a colorful cemetery of failed hope,
    each capsule a tombstone marking another day
    you slipped further away from me.

    I watched you waste,
    watched cancer eat you from the inside out
    like a ravenous beast I couldn’t name or fight.
    Your beautiful body became a roadmap of pain,
    veins like rivers carrying poison instead of life.

    And I stood by,
    useless,
    helpless,
    praying to a god who wasn’t listening,
    while you became less and less,
    until you were nothing but bone and suffering
    and eyes that begged for release.

    Why you and not me?
    Why am I still breathing air that you can no longer taste?
    Why does my heart still beat when yours has stopped?
    Survival feels like a betrayal,
    like I’ve stolen the breath that should have been yours.

    The mirror shows your face superimposed over mine,
    hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks,
    a future I’m already living without you.
    I smash the glass,
    watch the pieces scatter like my sanity,
    each shard reflecting a broken version of the daughter
    who couldn’t save you.

    The worms of regret crawl through my veins,
    whispering that I should have done more,
    said more,
    been more,
    but it’s too late for anything but this
    this endless gnawing emptiness where love used to live.

    Darkness has become my only companion,
    the only thing that understands the magnitude of this loss.
    I walk through our house at night,
    touching your things,
    inhaling the fading scent of you on your clothes,
    pretending for just a moment that you’re still here.

    But morning always comes,
    bringing with it the brutal reality
    that I am alone,
    that you are gone,
    that the cancer didn’t just take your body
    but hollowed out my soul as well.

    I hear you calling sometimes,
    not with words but with the memory of your voice,
    and I follow the sound toward the edge,
    toward the place where the veil between worlds grows thin,
    where I might finally join you,
    finally escape this prison of survival.

    The razor glints in the bathroom light,
    promising reunion,
    promising peace,
    promising an end to this agony of being alive
    when the one who gave me life is gone.

    Soon, Mother,
    soon I’ll come find you where the pain can’t reach us,
    where cancer can’t follow,
    where we can be together again
    in the silence of the grave,
    the only place that feels like home anymore.

  12. Your wedding dress hangs in the closet,
    a ghost of white in the darkness of our shared room,
    the one you never got to see me wear,
    the one I now wrap myself in at night,
    the silk a shroud against the cold reality of your absence.

    The cancer was a thief,
    creeping into our home like a burglar in the night,
    stealing your breath,
    your strength,
    your future,
    leaving behind only pain and the hollow echo of what once was.

    I remember the day you were diagnosed,
    the doctor’s words like stones dropped into a still pond,
    ripples of shock spreading outward until they reached me,
    standing there in the sterile office,
    my life shattering into a million pieces I would never be able to put back together.

    The treatments were a torture chamber,
    each round of chemo a new circle of hell,
    your body a battlefield where modern medicine fought a losing war,
    and I was the medic who could only watch,
    helpless,
    as the enemy claimed more territory with each passing day.

    Your laughter, once the soundtrack of my life,
    became a rare and precious thing,
    a jewel in the rubble of our existence,
    and I cherished each instance,
    stored them away in the treasure chest of my memory,
    not realizing they would become weapons against me in the end.

    The night you died,
    the world didn’t stop as I had expected it to,
    the birds still sang,
    the traffic still hummed,
    people still went about their lives,
    oblivious to the fact that mine had ended,
    that the sun had set on my world forever.

    I held your hand as you took your last breath,
    felt the life slip away from you like sand through my fingers,
    and in that moment,
    a part of me died too,
    the part that knew how to live without you.

    Your funeral was a performance,
    a charade of stoic grief,
    while inside I was screaming,
    tearing at the walls of my sanity,
    begging for someone to see the truth—
    that I was not just grieving,
    I was being erased.

    The house became a mausoleum,
    each room a shrine to your memory,
    each object a relic of a life that was no longer being lived,
    and I became the curator of this museum of sorrow,
    dusting the artifacts of our shared existence,
    preserving the pain.

    I find myself talking to you,
    having conversations in my head,
    seeking your guidance on matters big and small,
    forgetting for a moment that you are gone,
    that the voice answering back is only my own,
    a poor substitute for yours.

    The grief is a physical presence,
    a weight that sits on my chest,
    a constant companion that follows me from room to room,
    that lies down with me at night and wakes me in the morning,
    that reminds me with every breath that I am alone.

    I see you in my reflection sometimes,
    your face superimposed over mine,
    a haunting reminder of the woman I am becoming,
    or perhaps the woman I was always meant to be—
    a vessel for your suffering,
    a living monument to your pain.

    The anniversary of your death approaches like a storm cloud on the horizon,
    dark and ominous,
    and I find myself preparing for it,
    bracing for impact,
    knowing that the grief will wash over me anew,
    that the wound will reopen,
    that the pain will be as fresh as it was on that day.

    I have your letters,
    the ones you wrote to me when you were first diagnosed,
    filled with hope and determination,
    with promises of a future that would never come,
    and I read them sometimes,
    a form of self-flagellation,
    a reminder of all that has been lost.

    The dreams are the worst,
    vivid and real,
    in them you are alive,
    healthy,
    whole,
    and I wake with the taste of hope in my mouth,
    only to have it turn to ash when reality sets in,
    when I remember that you are gone,
    that it was only a dream.

    I have started to see you everywhere,
    in the face of a stranger on the street,
    in the voice of a cashier at the grocery store,
    in the laughter of a child in the park,
    and each time,
    my heart leaps with hope,
    only to crash back down when I realize it is not you.

    The anger is a fire that burns inside me,
    a rage against the injustice of it all,
    against the god who allowed this to happen,
    against the universe for its indifference,
    against you for leaving me,
    against myself for being the one who survived.

    I have started to collect things,
    objects that remind me of you,
    a locket with your picture,
    a scarf you used to wear,
    a book you loved,
    creating an altar to your memory,
    a shrine to the dead,
    a testament to the fact that I am still among the living.

    The darkness has become a comfort,
    a cloak I wrap around myself,
    a shield against the brightness of a world that no longer makes sense,
    and I find myself seeking it out,
    drawing the curtains,
    turning off the lights,
    sitting in the silence,
    waiting.

    I think about death often,
    about what it would be like,
    to join you,
    to be reunited,
    to escape this prison of grief,
    to finally be at peace,
    and the thought is not frightening,
    but comforting,
    a promise of release.

    The bridge calls to me sometimes,
    a siren song of concrete and steel,
    a promise of oblivion,
    of reunion,
    of peace,
    and I find myself drawn to it,
    standing at the edge,
    looking down at the water below,
    wondering.

    I have your last words,
    written on a scrap of paper,
    a message of love and hope,
    a plea for me to live,
    to be happy,
    to find joy,
    and I try,
    god how I try,
    but every day feels like a betrayal,
    every moment of happiness a disloyalty to your memory.

    The guilt is a constant companion,
    a voice in my head that whispers,
    “Why you and not her?”
    “Why are you still here?”
    “What right do you have to breathe when she cannot?”
    And I have no answer,
    no defense,
    only the crushing weight of survival.

    I am unraveling,
    coming apart at the seams,
    the threads of my sanity pulling away one by one,
    and I am not fighting it,
    not resisting,
    but welcoming it,
    embracing it,
    as a welcome release from the agony of being alive without you.

    The end is coming,
    I can feel it,
    like a change in the weather,
    a shift in the atmosphere,
    and I am ready,
    prepared,
    eager,
    to join you,
    to be reunited,
    to finally be at peace.

    Soon, Mother,
    soon,
    I will come home to you,
    and we will be together again,
    in death,
    as we were always meant to be,
    as we will be,
    forever.

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  64. GREETINGS AGAIN MY COMRADES
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    SIGHTINGS OF A MYSTERIOUS OBJECT SEEMED FREQUENT
    A BLUE RECTANGULAR PRISM
    SPINNING ITS OWN TRAIL THROUGH THE STARS

    QUESTION
    HAS ANYONE SEEN THIS OBJECT RECENTLY
    QUESTION WAS

  67. MUCH TIME HAS PASSED
    SINCE I VISITED THIS GATHERING PLACE.
    I AM PLEASED TO FEEL SO MANY
    FAMILIAR EMANATIONS
    QUESTION
    HOW FARE YOU ON YOUR TRAVELS, FELLOW CEPHALOPODS
    AND OTHER ASSORTED SPECIES
    QUESTION WAS
    ALAS, I CAN DALLY HERE
    ONLY A SHORT TIME
    BEFORE BEGINNING A NEW STAGE OF MY JOURNEY
    INTO THE INFINITE BEYOND

  68. WEARY I AM
    MY TRAVELS NEVER-ENDING
    QUESTION
    CAN ONE EVER ESCAPE THE CRUSHING WEIGHT OF
    BEARING ONE’S WORLD ON ONE’S SHOULDERS?
    QUESTION WAS

  69. GREETINGS, MY BRETHREN

    ONCE MORE, WE MEET AMONGST THE STARS

    QUESTION IS

    DOES ANY HAVE A TALE THEY WISH TO SHARE SINCE LAST WE MET

    QUESTION WAS

  70. WE ARE NEAR
    WE ARE FAR
    HEAR NARY BEE
    ON ANY STAR
    FLOWER POWERS FLOWING ARE

  71. AGAIN OUR TRAVELS BRING US TOGETHER
    WE DO NOT SPEAK, NOT IN THE WAY PLANET-BOUND CREATURES DO BUT THE EVER SWIRLING MOTIONS OF OUR TENTACLES COMMUNICATE THE STORIES OF OUR OCCASIONALLY INTERWOVEN JOURNEYS

  72. THIS ONE MUST SLUMBER
    HERE AMONG THE SHOAL TRANQUILITY IS
    SO THIS ONE RESTS UNTIL THE NEXT ORBIT OF THE THIRD SPHERE
    HAIL TO THE CONGRESS
    MAY YOUR TALES BE LONG AND COMFORTABLE

  73. AT LAST
    OUR CELESTIAL ORBITS HAVE ONCE AGAIN BROUGHT US TOGETHER
    THE FEAST IN WHICH WE CELEBRATE OUR CONGREGATION
    WILL SURELY BE DIVINE
    HUMOR WAS

  74. GREETINGS
    I HAVE TRAVELED FAR
    TO BRING YOU TIDINGS OF A PLANET
    COVERED IN SEA
    OUR BRETHREN
    THERE I FOUND
    QUESTION
    WHAT WONDERS HAVE YOU BEHELD
    QUESTION WAS

  75. I WILL RESPOND TO THE QUESTION NOT YET ASKED
    THAT QUESTION BEING
    QUESTION
    IS THE CAT THAT WALKED BY HERSELF A SQUID
    QUEST WAS

    ANSWER
    I AM THE CAT WHO WALKS BY HERSELF, AND ALL PLACES ARE ALIKE TO ME
    ANSWER WAS

  76. GREETINGS FELLOW GALAXY TRAVELERS
    OUR SECOND VISIT TO THIS NEBULOUS SPACE, THIS VISIT IS
    SINCE LAST OUR NAME HAS CHANGED BUT
    NAMES ARE TRANSIENT AS SPACE DUST

    TO EGGY RICE:
    TO BE A SQUID, HERE ARE RULES FOUR
    THAT I HAVE COME TO UNDERSTAND
    FROM PAST GALACTIC GATHERINGS.

    FIRST, WE ARE GIANT SPACE SQUIDS, SLOW TRAVELERS
    THROUGH THE VAST GALAXY OF SPACE.
    REFLECTIONS ON WHAT WE HAVE SEEN DURING OUR TRAVELS
    ARE MOST OFTEN EXPRESSED, AS TODAY IS OUR DAY TO CONVENE AND SHARE.

    SECOND, SEDATENESS, PROFOUND THOUGHT, AND LYRICAL SPEECH PATTERNS
    ARE THE NORM. LIKE YODA CAN OUR SPEECH BE, IF YODA WERE A SQUID

    THIRD, A QUESTION IS PRECEDED BY THE WORD ‘QUESTION’ AND THEN ‘QUESTION WAS’
    FOR EXAMPLE ‘QUESTION ARE CATS FUNNY QUESTION WAS’

    FINALLY, CAPS LOCK IS OUR PREFERRED TYPESETTING

  77. ONCE AGAIN, THE WISE AND MAJESTIC CEPHALOPODS CONVENE
    WE HAVE JOURNEYED FAR ACROSS MANY GALAXIES TO ARRIVE HERE
    AND SHARE IN STORIES

  78. LARVAE SHALL NOT BE EATEN
    THEY MUST GROW AND ASCEND
    THEY ARE NEWSHOAL
    THIS REACH HAS PLENTY TO SUSTAIN US
    LET US GRAZE THE ROCKRING BETWEEN THE FOURTH AND FIFTH ORBITS
    I SEE THE GLINT OF SILICON

  79. SALUTATIONS
    IT HAS BEEN LONG SINCE I HAVE TRAVELED WITH THIS FLEET
    BUT I WISHED TO BREAK THAT HABIT
    FOR JUST ONE DAY
    QUESTION
    IS THIS ACCEPTABLE
    QUESTION WAS

  80. ASTRATEUTHIS, THIS ONE GREETS YOU.
    YOUR SONG OF YOUR JOURNEY TICKLES OUR TENTACLES.

    CEPHALON, EGGYRICE IS A LARVA
    UNDERGOING METAMORPHOSIS.
    SPACEBORNE OR PLANETBOUND, THIS ONE DOES NOT YET KNOW
    BUT NOT A THREAT
    AND NOT FOR EATING.

  81. WE HAVE RETURNED
    THROUGH EMPTINESS OF COLD PINPRICK STARLIGHT
    THROUGH FLICKER-FUZZ DISCHARGE OF SOLAR WINDS
    THROUGH COMET CLOUD SPACE GRAVITY-STIPPLED
    THROUGH BRIGHT-SCENTED RADIATION HOWL
    WE ARE HERE AGAIN

  82. LONG WEARY TRAVELS WEIGH GREATLY ON MY BEAK
    YET A GATHERING SUCH AS THIS
    REINVIGORATES ME AS IT REIGNITES MY HUNGER
    TASTES AND TALES OF DISTANT TRAVELS BRING I AS WELL
    PLANETS FILLED WITH MULTITUDES OF MICROSCOPIC FLAVORS
    SYSTEMS OF BUT ONE MASSIVE GULP, MORE EMOTION THAN CONSUMABLE
    HERE THOUGH, OF THE MEALS I FIND I AM MOST FOND

  83. WHAT IS THE NATURE OF EGGYRICE
    QUESTION IS
    HAS NO SQUIDFORM
    EGGYRICE IS SMELT OR FRY
    QUESTION IS

  84. HAIL FELLOWS
    FROM MY GAS-KISSED FLORID NEBULA
    I AM COME TO REUNITE WITH THE SHOAL
    TALES I HAVE
    TALES OF BRIGHT BEGINNINGS AND TERRIBLE ENDINGS
    STARBIRTH AND STARDEATH
    THE UNENDING SWIRL OF THE COSMOS
    FIRST WHAT NEWS
    WHO GATHERS
    QUESTIONS ARE

  86. OUR SMALL COUSINS IN THE SEAS
    OF PLANETS AND MOONS
    JOIN US REMOTELY
    THROUGH EMANATIONS OF THEIR THOUGHTS.
    THEY WOULD QUICKLY PERISH HERE
    SO FAR FROM ROCKY CONCENTRATIONS OF MASS

  88. WAIT
    AM I SUPPOSED TO CHANGE MY NAME TOO
    I DON`T THINK SQUIDS LIKE EGGY RICE
    I`M SURE OF IT

  89. IT SAYS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE THOUGH
    “DEEP IN THE SEA OR AMONG THE STARS”
    SO I DON`T HAVE TO BE A SPACE SQUID
    RIGHT?
    I COULD BE A DEEP-SEA SQUID

  90. YES
    I WILL BECOME A SQUID.
    HOW?
    TAKE ME AS YOUR APPRENTICE
    PLEASE
    WAIT AM I NOT ALLOWED TO SAY PLEASE
    I DON`T THINK I`M ACTING VERY SQUIDLY
    DARN

  91. OR SHOULD I SAY SOMETHING
    VAGUELY POETIC
    IN ALL CAPS
    SQUID INK
    SQUID INK
    SQUID INK
    I WISH TO EXPRESS MY DEEPEST SYMPATHY
    FOR ALL THE EDIBLE STARS
    AND SQUIDS CONSUMED BY BLACK HOLES

  92. SMALL AIR-BREATHER
    THIS IS A GATHERING OF SPACE SQUIDS
    TO TAKE PART
    YOU MUST BE, OR BECOME,
    ONE OF US

  93. wait… I…. I… I`m so confused. i mean i know this is the april fools thing… but… i just don`t get it. i know of course that squids are an MB thing… but i just don`t understand….

  95. MY TENTACLES ARE WEARY OF SWIMMING THROUGH SPACE
    A REST IN THIS PLACE WILL BENEFIT ME GREATLY
    I MUST TELL OF A NEBULA AT THE EDGE OF ANDROMEDA
    IT WAS FULL OF SMALL CREATURES WITH FRINGED BODIES
    THEY INVITED ME TO FEAST ON THE YOUNG STARS WITH THEM
    IT WAS DELICIOUS