Friday, 9th December 2016

And so finally he let go. What he first considered as holy he now saw as an empty trap, his fingers grasped at an air illusion that never even gave him the physical object to cling to but simply a shadow of his own desperate desires.
He fell through the air watching phantoms pass by as he descended with increasing velocity into a nothingness held together only by the lack of something to envisage in its place.
After a quiet hope of reconciliation, a change in both him and the other, and after having tried every approach he could think of, and after following one mirage after another created by it, he at last gave up, and how satisfying a sip of release is after entombed captivity, watching the created images projected upon the white walls in front of him.
If it is something you cannot see or imagine it becomes just an idea formed by meaningless words, never again would his fingers touch keys to an actual being but only a deformed memory misinformed from the very beginning, and no amount of time would ever clear up the mess that he had made, only realising that the mess was always only in his head and any physical manifestation of it was simply a reflection. And within these phantom mazes sometimes you may hear phantom voices speaking to you, they may speak enticing words to seduce you, they may know every darkest corner of your mind and seem to voice themselves as those walls, but it is still all within you, and those voices were never there in the first place.