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A recorded reading of “Disappearing Breath”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
Fear clutches my stomach, tight and cold, a relentless grip that will not let go. I stretch open my eyes, and darkness dies, but in its place, a deeper shadow lies. My mouth falls dry, opening into a scream— a primal cry that rips through my dream. The louder I scream, the emptier it feels, a hollow echo that nothing heals. The silence that follows is deafening, a void so vast it pulls me in. The more I scream, the more it devours, turning seconds to endless hours. Until I can no longer hear a sound, just the pounding of blood, the darkness around. And I feel... oh, how I feel myself unraveling, raw and unreal. I feel myself disappearing, piece by piece, like smoke dissolving, I find no release. It’s as if my breath is my soul undone, escaping into the scream, one by one. The scream becomes me; I am no more, just a sound that echoes from a distant shore. My voice, my self, my very core, are swallowed whole in a desperate roar. A scream without end, a silence so deep, it drowns the light, it haunts my sleep. For in that moment, I am not alive— just a whisper lost in a scream’s dive. Is this what it means to be consumed, to be lost in the sound where shadows loom? To stretch open my eyes, but never to see a world where I am no longer me? Fear clutches tight, and darkness revives— a loop that holds me, where nothing survives. I scream, I disappear, I am the cry, a voice in the void that will never die.
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