A Year of Other.

Wasting days in a cloak of grey. Wire heartbeat of my mattress, revisited in it's solemn state. Fine mists of uncertainty envelop feeble minds and choke them of thought that extends past the moment. The choking grey that inhibits futures and dares one to stay in a state of pause, of silence, of boredom.

Terrifying is the looming imprisonment of mind in this dusty cage. A prison with no solidity to it's walls, only a block on choice and a haze where dreams once explored. The present attacks dreams of futures brightly woven, wraps them in silencing webs. Sitting in the clouds a mile above the world, phases into being encased in a cocoon of cloud, barely suspended over the carpet of a quiet room.

Days of pain weaken the defence. Weaken the force of imagination. Weaken the smile that follows the excitement of possibility, until only the ghost of happiness tickles lightly the cloaked senses.