Darkness, black as night, creeps silently. Inertia she settles, yet she is not welcome here. Fires of frustration threatening to engulf. How can I continue forward, I can barely stay afloat. There is a choice to be made, yet I struggle to decide. My mind running off in circles, too far and too wide. Wasted intelligence is the biggest fear, but I really am not meant to be here. I feel the pull, the tug away from the direction which I felt I ought to take. A risk to walk away, which I fear maybe too great. The detriment of which, it may signal my demise. The blood spilling from the clouds, it falls deep into the skin, saturating my brain, no longer wise. I want to run, but I have no legs. I want to scream, but there is no voice left within. I am afraid I am turning into merely a shell. Shadow of my being, I fall fast into hell.
Writing is my passion, the one thing I love. The words on the page save me, like angels sent from above. Inertia she sweeps, across my bare chest, leaving a heavy weight, leaden upon my breast. Yet the writing continues to flow like blood from a fresh open wound. The one thing I can always manage to do. Ironically inertia, and the darkness makes the craft which I hone so much easier to create. Empty pages are my home.