Overload

By: Elishima Carrol

Dark skies, gloom spreads like fog in the air: unbroken, unyielding. It knows no bounds to those who breathe it, consumed endlessly into complacency. A hell made fantasy, pressed into sheets, soft to the touch easy to cocoon in. Envelop, an eternal welcome to an everlasting slumber. This be inevitable. Be the light, be the dark. Be the sun and the moon, an undeniable silver lining made possible. Existing. This be absent, lacking. An ocean of stillness, a masquerade of calm; no attention to the surrounding storm. Needles prick the skin with every breath. The surrounding atmosphere of pain in rejuvenation, join hands, walk on eggshells, and remain present. Here. Alive. A tomb of loud overbearing silence, the labyrinth: a ceaseless maze, unending in its mystery. Light indistinguishable from the dark as time elapses, a variable of the unknown: seconds seamlessly pour over into days, leaving everything still. Familiar yet unrecognizable. Conflicting in its existence. Unavoidable to the core of its being, sunken deep in its grasp. It’s presence? Undeniable. Plentiful in this domain, roaming across the body as if to claim it as its own.