There are hallways and there are rooms. Roads connecting to homes. Paths leading to villages.
Vacant spaces brining me to nowhere.
Veins are lines on a map, we are more than just bodies. We are unfolded pieces of paper creased in the corners with relevant urge. With crests and valleys composed of experiences and dreams and adventure.
I have yet to unfold.
Doors whisper, they invite you in. So many locks and keys and treasure chests full of passion of determination of unwavering will.
I’m locked and no key has ever fit.
Footsteps are history in the making. Artifacts. Proof of the reason you stayed; the reason you left. The carved sand along the shore making you wonder if they are running away or going home.
I turn to only find my shadow.
Maps full of all these hallways and rooms and reasons and unopened treasure chests. Missing keys and ghostly whispers before every door and I begin to wonder whether or not I was begging please to the slurring headlights down the midnight road or to somebody who could save me.
There comes a point when you need to realize that sleeping isn't a cure to anything.