I glance at the walls, barely remembering any features
anymore. I gave up staring a while ago when I failed to see
the point or feel the flame. I look directly now. My room
does not feel like my own. The person inhibiting it was in
my body, but not myself. Ever felt like all the choices
have been made on your behalf, but not by you?

".I'm here for the ride but didn't choose the destination"
,I mutter to myself, the scars of the walls remind me of me
reminding myself why I stopped looking at things at the
first place.
In this desolate void only my thoughts grow, brooding
.slowly, taking over ancient mechanisms. Magic for doubt
Blind hope for expressionalism. Don't walk barefoot in the
sun, freedom might catch up on you and break this spell.

Carefully within my heart, throughout all this, for a
fleeting moment I wish, I long, I desire. In my mind, I
only need to wish once, in reality I wish twice. Once I
wish I had something to wish for, then I wish it all to go
away. Regret, another wish, lingering on regrets. I wish I
had something to say. How does one express the emotion of
being filled, but with the wrong stuff?

In literature, a void is almost never a void. It could be
the feeling of solitude between your fingers, the sinking
inside your head, like that of a drug or a depression
almost scraped but always leaving a mental trace.
,As the throat fills the lungs with smoke and ash and hash
the vision of the entirety of human suffering conveyed
through my soul becomes clear in the haze of smoke and in
the absence of answers, more reason-absent truths unfold.

.For 1 moment, I had something to say when I began this