I try to make sense of the blurring
Patches of ink on the paper
The sharp curls of each letter
Forming words
It was an imprint of the mind
Moving, reforming, changing
A sentient being taunting my once solemn thoughts

It was a cage.
Trapped and wrapped in a plethora of oddities

It was the color that surrounds it
The very core of what it truly is

It distorts me

The sun was dim and bright
A collision of all
The stars were eyes
Looking down on the meek

The birds swam the skies
And licked it clean with the clouds
The fishes raged at the seas
And from their turmoil
Brought forth raging waters
It was the splotches of creatures on land
There their eyes stuck to the ground
Untethered but cannot move
Unscathed but the fires in their
Bones singes of black goo
They fertilized the soil
And grew trees
Woven out of blood
And the euphoria of staying afloat

In reality one cannot fathom
What it truly meant

Or how it made one feel

It was a different kind of lost
A different kind of terrain
It was unexpected.
Unexplainable.
It was a compendium
Of the confusing.
The ineffable.
The colors were everything.

And I was reduced to nothing.

It was not just mere ink.
It was not just words.
It was not just the paper.

It was the sheerness of its meaninglessness.
The desperation of reason and thought
That spindled and weaved its way into
My skull.
drilled and drilled and drilled.
Until I am numb.



Just like Sylvia.