Eyes focus through a blurred strand of understanding, until logic verified it was only her hair. She’s a bit lost, and I suppose reality lost itself along the way, although she has now found herself happily residing in her head and the universe, and at this point fantasy and the infinite possibilities of the unknown have proven the only valuable method of coping. It may have appeared to be leading to a fusion of creativity and color but it would seem those bonds can be so easily torn, there is always a bit of lingering heat, and passing flames.

It’s possible for her to define these feelings as mistakes; but she pretends she has learned to appreciate them as lessons. There once was a taste of the absolute, some transient passion that was fed into herself intravenously, and soon upon she discovered that withdrawal was a permanent state. On weekends she would blend her tainted blood with chemical comforts, and slip back into sweet fiction. She would write her own existence. there were limited possibilities there, and this empty reality was simply one battered perception.

Decomposing and distant, a shattered piece of fiction sat reclining against the wall. She was delicate, exposed, wasted, eternally fading but never nonexistent. Stuck in this limbo out of reach of limbs and the tranquility of a rested conscience, she found her formulated existence. She felt an unknown force slowly bending her bones, manipulating her movements, and shaping her thoughts. In all this time she wished to control the outcome, and yet fate still remained the oppressive victor.

Comforted only by hollowed hearts and dying dreams, she stayed hidden behind a wall whose stability and perfection she was nauseating in the company of. Beyond it she imagined there were clouds of amber. Pure and delicate creations, were bound in her aching mind, beyond even her comprehension. She breathed the passing air that only nature could compete with, but along with her vision, her senses were crushed within the black hole that was consuming what bit of reality remained. She held onto one image, one physical understanding of what had been, but along with her existence as she had known it to be, it slipped into some turbulent stream of collapsing matter and nothingness. What remained was only her twisted subconscious, but she stood witness to a cloudy formation within the vast expanse of emptiness. from its transcendent presence a torrent of color clouded her dark visions.

As each strand of consciousness formed and bound to what seemed to be reality, a raw and unforgiving fence replaced the wall she dreamed beyond. Still that foreign presence stayed visible through calloused chains and defensive barbed wire. It ripped into her flesh, claiming bits of her spine and tissue. It pained her and taunted her. Teeth gnawed at her soft guilt ridden skin, and she was reminded of the f---ing brutal taste of humanity that replaced a lingering state of reverie. Trapped in some tortuous dream she held onto the mistakes and something sweet that called from what she now understood. She had lost to fate, and reality and the impossible swarmed her cluttered thoughts. There was no line, no definition; her tainted instinct had led her to waste in a surreal plain, some metaphysical nightmare. She prayed it was a lucid trance, but she only felt her thoughts stabbing into her brain stem. This is what she had created out of blackness, in the infinite void, in the limitless plain of possibilities.