Today I’ve decided to tell you why I’m… morbid. [Maybe not morbid, now that I've thought about it. But I can't really think of a better term to describe what I'm talking about.] Isn’t that what it means to be fascinated by the “dark” and dark things. I’m going to be rather… philosophical? in my discussion of light and dark- the “light” here is happiness, goodness, joy. The pure things that are bright and true and good. Therefore the dark must be opposite, mustn’t it? The shadows that the light makes, the space that lurks between our joys and goodness. Without the dark, would we know what light looks like? Would we be able to see it at all? It’s the playing of the edges between the two that creates beauty, light and shade… Isn’t it? Lights cast on the darkness show us what it truly is, and I’m glad that it exists- the dark. No, it’s not always empty. It’s not just the absence of brightness, but without it we wouldn’t know. Without the dark the light wouldn’t be light- it would just… be. Without the ripples in our happy lives, wouldn’t they be stagnant? There wouldn’t be edges between light spots and dark ones. There wouldn’t be choices between good and evil. There would be no grey. Grey is an important concept, I think. Without grey, would there be dark and light? Or would the whole of everything just be a murky study in mediocrity? If I wasn’t waging a constant war with my newfound enemy- depression- would I ever realize how happy I am sometimes? It never used to be such a bitter battle for me to stay cheerful and happy. It wasn’t always a struggle to enjoy my life. Yet it also wasn’t as rewarding to be happy. I just was. It wasn’t a thrilling victory, no matter how temporary these victories sometimes are. It was just my almost permanent state. The dark and light are parts of me- always waiting and plotting for when their turn will come. In the wide green clearing that is the consciousness in the forest of my mind, there is the sun or the moon, hanging in the sky over everything I think and do. The other waits for it‘s turn, lurking in the trees and waiting for it’s moment. In Latin the word morbid means diseased- sick. Is it really a sickness to be fascinated by the things that, in a way, let me be happy? This is why I’m grateful for the dark. I don’t love the dark, black and murky things in life, but I do love the difference between the darkness and the rest. Does that make me a questionable person, or am I just one of the few who questions?