As I open my eyes, I listen to the sounds of nothing. My head is big and it’s throbbing, proving once again that alcohol is not the solution.
Dreams always find a way of haunting me, as if my life wasn’t hauntingly boring enough.
I think about last night. And the nights before. There was a time when things were easy, but now it’s not that time.
I hear words and I hear sounds and everything there is a big ball of lies.
Life’s not pretty.
Love doesn’t exist.
People aren’t nice.
Alcohol is really good.
Pills are good also.
Everytime I look in the mirror, the image of my depressed self stares blankly at me.
Everytime I look around the room, nothingness fills it.
I have red eyes and my thoughts gather in silence in between my eyebrows.
I am mad, but I lack my beautiful purple hat. I don’t even have a white rabbit and dust is all over my naked body.
Bruised and broken, but not finished, I look at the mirror, trying to find the door that can lead me to myself.
A clock is ticking somewhere, far away from me, and as I turn my back, a hand is materialised from the pale rays of sun.
The hand has a dagger, and I meet it’s silvery blade with a smile on my face. I am the big ball of lies and none of this is true.
