We were stuck—frozen under the weight of a sun that burned like a punishment, a heavy force that dragged us in, making us feed on the very thing that was destroying us. The air felt wrong, suffocating, as if it were trying to choke the life out of us.
And then, once again, those empty horses came galloping through that violet door, their hooves thundering, following crooked paths that twisted in ways I couldn’t understand. They left shadows behind them, stretching across the moonlit floor like dark, twisted memories. The stars, those cold, distant things, gathered high above us—winged creatures, silent, watching, like the last remnants of humanity’s lost teachers. We had no choice but to bleed again, even as time shook us, spilling crystal blood like a dream that refused to end. A ripple in the wound, and then we woke up—alive but changed. You believe, and I believe, too—that you are the river of light, the one I hold on to, even as the night closes in, empty and endless, like a long, dark hallway with no end in sight.
i was listening to 'the headmaster ritual' by the smiths, and somehow, what i wrote just poured out. it’s like my mind just switches to autopilot, and i'm not really in control. writing feels almost like a mechanical reflex sometimes, just a skill that takes over!
