I can only walk when there is pain; shadows covering the walls, scratches in my head and fire burning my soul.
My suffering is eternal and at the same time unreal. Memory is just a ghost in this room. I can only wait until my physical pain is bigger than the eco inside my head.
The anger is something that makes you strong, the feel of revenge; but at the same time is just a reflection of your own emptiness.
The incapability to return to the past is the truth discouragement of a normal day. My mind is tired of all.
The shadows are here to hunt me; when the night is quiet and the sunlight is cold. Books covered with dust and burned bones are the furniture where I have abandoned my soul; the books are past stories and the bones are from the people gone, but still here in the corners, as statues of shadow beings.