I've been sitting here in the sunshine. The music plays in the background, the words parade across the page, but my heart is elsewhere.
Despite the warmth of the sun on my cheek, I don't feel real. It feels burnt and somehow, decidedly not mine. Not anyone's.
The breeze blows shadows across the walls and they remind me of memories I have lost. Objects just out of my periphery, taunting me with their impossible closeness. Their darkness. My losses.
Voices seem hollow, missing the notes that mean something. Missing the life, the joy, the love I once found hidden in their richness. Paper thin.
I am lost somewhere in my head, in the dusty corners with no windows. It is suffocating and old, the stench of decay for the things I have forgotten overpowering. And though I reach for it, no hand closes around mine.
Where are the colours?