No matter how lonely. Meanwhile, the world keeps turning.

Impossible, yet probable.
As shade as night,
as clear as a June sky.
Logic says yes.

I say no.

How can the world keep turning? How can the sun keep rising? Don't they know? Are they not aware? Or maybe, most likely, they don't care enough to alter their patterns, to alert the world. I am obsolete. Why should the sun and the moon and the clouds care? Why should they sob, feel their breath catch in their throats, feel their eyes burn with unshed tears as mine do? My own personal world shatters.
Things fall apart.
The centre cannot hold.
Chaos. Confusion. No order, no light, just swimming. Just swimming and sinking and gulping it in. There's spinning and my heard hurts. It's spinning too fast, too harsh, too painful. Time to stop. Time to STOP. I feel no desire to cry, just to scream. To scream and scream and scream until there is no more air to swallow and my lungs collapse upon themselves. Maybe if I rest a minute, lay my head upon something stable, concrete, sold. A constant. A surety. Reliable.
But I can't. My constant is gone.
Just like the sun and the air and the walls. Like the sky and sound and gravity. Reason is gone and emotion is gone. Music and electricity and the journal beside my bed are gone. All is gone.
But me.
I am here.



Okay, this is a piece from Creative Writing again. It's an emotional prose. I've found it's easier to write emotional pieces when I'm bored and not feeling very much emotion. Strange, huh?