The cat is positioned in the northern corner of the world. The room. The room from which I never wander from. My world, through which I experience life.

The sun, which rises in the east of the confinement, it is as my anger, my heat, my wish for ease. In contrary terms, the west, where it sets is my mind's rest.

The cat does not change positions; even when the clouds gather and dim my room does he stand still. My only company, a standing statue of a true carved wooden soul.

The clouds are dark and the walls are dripping, sopping like grey wet paint streaming down, and puddling on the ground through which I walk over. My tears and grey damp surroundings fill the room until I nearly suffocate under my own emotions for lack of oxygen.

I can sing my soul out into the grey and wait, the wind is my key, the thunder my tone. Such a monsoon through which I crave my well being. The salted tears falling from my chin only further fill the room, and in my boisterous battle against my world, as soon as I slip under and silenced I am does the rain cease, and drain into my soul it does.

Once I finally take a breath, the crickets begin their melody, in tune to my heartbeat, and emotionally wasted does it want to give up on me. But never does it lose its faith in my ability to rest and be content. Trying harder with all its might to withstand the room and its tribulations.

The moon greets my sleepy eyes, and as it is generous enough to let me lay my eyes upon it, unlike the sun, I am thankful enough to lay my head in its rays. It represents my chance to start tomorrow fresh, wherein I'll wait again to see my moon and hear my heart by my side, and beat the monsoon which is as my mind's rush.