They always warned me never to look into the light, the light at the corner of my eye at the peak of night. The light everyone sees but nobody acknowledges. The light thirsting to release itself at the slightest twitch of the optic nerve. There's only so much temptation, however, that one can physically resist. So one night I did it -- I looked. With a swivel of my head, I followed the light through the beaming contrails it left in my bedroom air; it almost seemed to be averting my gaze. Minutes passed and once again the light disappeared, taking shelter somewhere in my peripheral vision. To my own surprise, I remained unscathed. Right as the adrenaline flooding my chest began to deflate, there was white, blinding white. It filled every corner of my being; it drowned me. In an effort to save myself I raised my left arm to my eyes, only to witness the acute disintegration of my flesh. The white intensified into an unmatchable brightness that even the most poignant language, the most violent supernova, could not illustrate. Then, silence.

I'm not sure why I was told never to look into the light. It's very quiet up here.