I stare into the void and look for a spark. Any light at all.
Once more, there is none.
“Someone help me,” I whisper to the darkness. “Help me, please.”
Seven times I say this, as I always do. Seven times, there is no reply.
There is nobody to help me here. Or if there is, they do not listen, they do not come. I am on my own. As I have always been and always will be.
I no longer believe in the spark. In light. It has been too long. I look for it from habit, from long-entrenched pattern of being. It is all that I am now, the seeking, the looking, the hoping.
There is nobody here but me. It has always been such. So why do I ask for help? Why do I think that, this time, somebody might listen? There is no reason to think that this time will be different.
But there is also no reason to think otherwise.
I look into the infinite black and see only more of the same.
There is no light.
There may never be.