It's difficult to word it out to someone who hasn't been there. You don't care if you don't eat, if you don't comb your hair in weeks, if you don't get out of bed. Ever. Staring at the ceiling is your salvation, but only till it comes crashing down. You hear it groan, feel it quiver. And yet when you wake up from being awake all along, it's still there waiting for you to stare at it, through it. Till your eyes shut into consciousness again, till the roof seems to fall again. You haven't seen a mirror or another person in days. The silence is deafening, the ceiling; on repeat.
Dance, won't you?
No comments:
Post a Comment