Cold Still

If only living inside ones head was truly possible. Maybe this can be achieved through death, but I am only so willing to step through that door. The eagerness to find out grows with each passing day, however. The dusts of everything I never accomplished swirl towards the door with a sigh of surrender.

I am surrounded in darkness, despite the illuminated temple of the future I can't quite seem to reach. I see myself, as many different things, but the path to me is dark. Carefully, I step into the darkness. Fear ignites my blood, but I don't turn back. Blindly, I navigate, the stone projections of myself barely seeming to grow larger. Am I getting closer? The door whispers, sending a blade of harsh light to cut through to me. I look back, down the easy road, then just ahead of me.

Illuminated now is the path, but just. My shadow cast over it, head disappearing into a deep, thin, abyss. There appears to be no end, no floor. I could jump that gap. I could reach the temple, I could-

Just as I am ready, the gap begins to grow. It does not hesitate, simply stretches wider and wider, swallowing my future with a complacent yawn. As the gap grows wider between the wise, omnipresent statues of the self I'll never be and the lump of existence I am shamed to call "me", it becomes more and more apparent where my fate rests; at the bottom of the lonely abyss, or through the door behind me.

I will never sit with myself, in my temple, and for this fact the door opens wider. It tempts me. I stay motionless, unwilling to fling myself from the edge or close the door. Two opportunities, neither of them ideal. So, I sit. I stay, and I rot, longing to be in the temple, tempted in the warm glow of the door, magnetized to the deep of the abyss.

In solitude.


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