Sat in a dark and empty room,
Surrounded by tireless gloomy shadows,
Wandering about,
Circulating around these four walls,
It is almost magical,
Yet throat clenching.
Despite being trapped in the centre of chaos,
I remain cool and composed,
Beneath a fatigued dim light bulb.
There was nothing else around me,
Aside from a handful of black pens,
Dozens of empty pale pages,
And a worn-out squeaky chair.
I sat down,
The shadows are forming songs around the room,
Dancing to their own rhythm,
I take a pen and a paper,
And I write.
At that time,
It was the most reasonable thing to do,
Is it possible that I was forced into this situation, and this was my only option?
I do not know.
My recollections are fragmented and disrupted,
Leaving me with little recall,
Incoherent and distant,
I cannot recall the sequences that lead to this,
Unusual patterns appear intermittently,
Leaving prints on my retinas,
Baffling me,
Swings me between reality and the subconscious.
There was not much in this room.
The walls were concrete grey and there was a large, rusted steel door,
A little square-shaped window high up on the wall,
A chair,
pens,
and hundreds of pages.
It felt both real and unreal in this dank prison,
I could not sleep despite feeling exhausted,
I did not feel hungry or need to use the loo,
I could not be happy or sad,
It felt like a dream,
Yet I was there,
All I could think of and feel was agony,
and it was the only thing I could write about.
I found myself in a state of conscious unconsciousness,
Unsure of time or place,
I am not sure who I am or what this means,
I wonder,
What's the point of having a brain that can only think of one thing?
I stroll about the room aimlessly,
Confused,
Sad.
Every few seconds,
a dazzling ray of light shines through the window,
revealing what was before concealed in a shade,
Hundreds or even thousands of partially degraded letters with strange designs and drawings on them scattered all over the walls,
I attempted to rip one off,
But it seemed set and refused to move.
I tried again but failed,
I screamed in anguish.
I drew the chair closer to the window to see the view outside,
I noticed a distant, white-walled lighthouse,
I stare in awe at what I am looking at,
I am on an island,
No one else is around,
I continue to stare while my eyes dance about, attempting to grasp what reality I am living in,
It was pouring severely outside,
The wind took everything and anything around the island,
It was cold,
and the storm did not seem to start settling anytime soon.
Seconds later, I am interrupted by the lighthouse beaming right at me,
It almost blinded me,
before swinging away.
I hop off the chair with my back to the window,
Looking back on those four walls,
I am not able to fathom what I have just witnessed,
I cannot think of a way out,
Writing is the only rational option,
but there were way too many blank pages,
And I am unsure where to begin.
I have been alone for a long time and have lost the capacity to communicate,
I am not sure how many days I have been here,
or how it all began,
I do not believe that I have spent my entire life in this empty room.
I am not sure whether I am hallucinating, but I have been hearing distant piano playing after I finish writing a page,
It was usually in a major note and sounds like a lovely depression or a nice cry.
Is it possible that the person who placed me here intended for me to complete writing all the pages?
Will my words have the same fate as the ones on the walls?
I do not know.
I have done a few pages but cannot locate them anymore,
I am running out of ideas, yet time does not seem to change,
I do not know what to expect or to give.
I feel that I could give more but I am unable of giving.
Perhaps I should give up.
I have always found the concept of death reassuring,
Knowing that my life could end at any time allows me to appreciate both the beauty and tragedy of this planet.
Death is not a source of fear for me,
rather a means of healing.
There is nothing unique about this narrative,
I tried writing about my sorrow, but it did not seem to ease it,
I also tried expressing the remains of my memories but that failed to bring them back,
I tried repeatedly,
I write to escape,
and I do not know what else I can do.
Page #87?
