The sky is the color of dusty water;
brown, blue, and a watered down gray.
The rain beats down as mercilessly as a killer on his victim,
or as the sun on a hot summer’s noon.
It brings back memories:
Memories of hate,
memories of scorn,
memories of hopefulness,
memories without a proper home.
Memories that only seem to exist in a world where there is no happiness left,
no air to breathe.
Is this really the life I lived?
How can on person feel so happy in a place that is closer to hell than anything on this earth?
It must be impossible.
And yet,
it is the past,
and if one cannot change the past,
they can simply **** off all memory.