Wilted

I spent my night pondering over a blank canvas. The edges were dirtied and bleached yellow from being sat unused from a time I barely remember. I did not plan to paint, I just wanted to think.

I watched the sun lower behind the sky scrapers that surrounded mine and the way the dust danced through the air. The sun, the dust, the plants, they all turned my room into a woodland where I could submerge myself in a reality that I concocted for myself. But I knew it wasn’t real. And yet I fought to keep it true.

It wasn’t that I struggled to see the difference between what was real and what was my imagination, more that I didn’t want to acknowledge that there was a real life. I wanted nothing more to be beyond gone. To be the level of crazy where I thought that fiction in my head was real. That my heart and soul felt this fantasy land I created was reality. To be able to be written off as a lunatic and live forever happy in that land of my imagination and ignore the dull drone of day to day life.

After hours of swimming in my thoughts, I could barely keep my eyes open and crawled towards my bed, pulling the covers over my head, and waited for sleep to take me. The darkness slipped through my open windows and held the duvet closer. It rocked me to sleep and I thanked it for making me feel peaceful.