immersing myself in fictional narratives as a weak attempt of temporary escape. it doesn’t actually change anything. the only thing that changes is the time I have left. how is it simultaneously too fast and too slow? why are weeks stretched but hours whiz by? the pain remains the same, buried then excavated; repeat the cycle of feeling too much and feeling nothing at all. life passes you like a boring movie, the fluorescent light of the theatre screen on your face, dazed eyes merely watching the motions but not entirely present. you don’t know what it’s like to live properly anymore. is this how normal people feel? am I overthinking again? am I supposed to ignore the growing void within me and cope with life as I have been dealt?
why is it so empty please fill me with something I just want to live vibrantly is that too much to ask for
restore my grey skies with colour. it seems like the palette is just within reach, yet I can’t find it in me to pick up the paintbrush. wrap your hand around my wrist, intertwine your fingers with mine, teach me how to experience life again, as it should be – a vivid technicolour dream.