Drip. Drip. Drip. Thick black ink drips into your mind. As you watch television, your head slowly fills up with thick black ink. What was once pure is now coated with darkness. The old entity of what you were is no longer visible. It seeps down into your eyes, completely blinding you. You blink once, twice, once more to be sure, but all you’re faced with is black. You cannot see, your vision has faded. Your direction is fuzzy, unclear, and undeterminable. Your only sense of reality is what you hear. Everyone around you seems to be blinded as well, completely content—is blindness really all that bad?
A few moments pass and you start to accept it. You think to yourself, “I’m not alone, and everyone else seems to be fine with it. Suck it up.” A notion inside you tells you this isn’t right, you’re not meant to be impaired this way. But that notion is quickly burned out, you are not alone. As you try to come to terms with this loss, the sensitivity of your other senses heightens. Your hands stiffen, you shake uncontrollably. You gasp for air, the thick liquid clogs your respiration. Your throat tightens, you can feel the bitter ink seep into your throat, suffocating you. Loud black noise begins to eat away your survival instincts, you scream to make it stop.
All this fidgeting, this fighting for your last breaths leads to an object falling into your lap. You feel it out, there seems to be only one button. You click it hoping the noise stops. Indeed it does. The television turns off, and all goes back to normal.