She cried in the evenings, like paint dripping from the walls. She thought of those moments, glowing fragments of a former life, when happiness seeped into her skin. It was something distant, somethings vague, something lost. She dreamt of those lost frames, burning celluloid coiled into ashes.

It was winter in her soul – another evening.

She raised the glass of water to her lips and the liquid trickled faintly down her throat. The ice rattled for a moment as she placed the glass on the table. She reclined into her chair and allowed the memories to flow back into her mind.

It was in these moments that she saw the birth of everything. All her faults and all her wisdom. The shades flickered in her mind, like ice crystals capturing the light in the evening sun. Everlasting, yet cold. It was in these moments that she saw herself.

She wept in grief until there was nothing left. Her heart felt blank. Empty. These moments lasted forever. Some moments fade away, dissipate like dust crawling under damp furniture. But these moments crawled over mountains, swept through time. She begged for these moments yet, when they arrived, they held the weight of all her pain. Every moment of sickness, every thought of melancholy tore through her. She wept in the dusk because she knew nothing else.

She recalled the childhood with her sister, one of happiness. They were young – very young. Mere children, free of responsibility and the coldness of the world. They had never felt this coldness before. Everything was bright in those days. The sun’s warmth felt real, like you could reach out and lightly touch its glow. Expressions were real and people were real and everything was real and nothing was fake and it all seemed like it had never occurred – but a dream, merely a dream.

She begged for those days to return, but it seemed so long ago. Almost. Almost like they had never occurred.

And then she was back in front of the fire. The melancholy stirred, burned into her skin. The fire spat pulsing embers.

She wondered what this meant. Perhaps it was the world telling her something. Something vague, but something important. A message from some faraway land. Something she could never understand.

And then nausea sunk into her skin. The sickness of sleep. And the scarlet flickers of the fire dampened and she fell deep deep down into her own wonderland.



Dusk crawled into dawn. Sleep dances in the darkness, like every night. In these states of slumber, clarity forms into a pasty orb. All those feelings of melancholy and all those feels of emptiness and all those feelings lost innocence evaporated, curled into nothingness. When dawn arrives, everything is born again.

Crawling out of bed, the edges of light seep through the shades. It’s blinding, but warm upon the skin. And then the world returns, all the memory and moments of a life.

Coffee soothes the morning sun. Adrenaline eases into my blood vessel. The day dawned upon me. Endless routine. The same motions over and over and over again. That was everything. That is all.

Some days, I feel born again. Revamped from another life. Resurrected from a former experience.

And then mother returns through the doorway and she is talking about something. Something important, but it is lost. Everything is mute. Her words dissipate in my brain. I try to focus, on the movement of her lips, the creases in her throat as they move and mould words. But their is nothing. She is looking at me with those lost eyes. Like she knows everything. Like she knows the truth.

But I can’t talk to her. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell her how things really are. How I stay awake until early dawn, musing on the sickness and bleak thoughts. How I wander aimlessly through the streets, waiting for some meaning to form. Or how I wonder I am just waiting just waiting just waiting and nothing. She appears to know everything, yet she knows nothing.

In the end, it doesn’t matter.


Layers of scarlet scream across the sky as I lie nestled into jaded grass. Everything seemed vacant and my mind was wandering and all that chaos that lurks in the mind, sheltered from reality, returned to light. Just an aura of harlequin light blistering upon a bed of darkness.

The morning wind was cold and it crept into my brain and my brain froze into my skull and I wondered whether winter would ever fade away.

Time is a strange creature. She kisses you with warmth, with creased lips that are pure. She provides you with some essence that takes upon the soul. Something to cherish. Time is a mask. Its warmth is merely a farce, a long-ridden joke. Beneath the thin layer of beauty is a hateful figure. She wants you to cry, to tear away the pages of time, to waste away those precious moments. She wants your skin to decay, your hair to dissipate into nothingness. Lost in the soul of time past and time thereafter.

Time is a strange creature and she laughs, always.

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