Classical Conditioning

The black was just a spot. Was. It did not invade my consciousness and I did not retain a fear for it. Like all insignificant things, it was relegated an unceremonious position somewhere in the fathoms of my subconscious.

Was.

As days, weeks, months passed, the black started to consume my time. Its acrid stench clung to my nose and my clothes. Worse, it clung to my mind. The black was a paranoid fantasy come true. The fear it causes is sublimely intoxicating---like rugby. Like acetone.

Drunk, I feverishly pursued the black. Soon, I was dependent on it. Without it I knew I would fail. Even with the fear, the dependence and worse, the addiction, I could not let go. There was too much to lose.

Now its summer. I am free. Photocopied pages are a thing of the past, a vestige of a murky incomprehensible dream.