Isolated Soul

Total darkness is all I’m seeing.

I walk my way through the absolute sea of black…I try to make out the shapes that is appearing out of no where. They are not clear. A blur of white colour blinds me…and mixes the scene with blackness…or is it gray? I cannot tell.

A whoosh of noises…

I trace my palm on the wall on my right side; it’s the only solid thing I can touch and feel….where am I?

My left arm is stretched…reaching for something that is not there…

And suddenly, I am in the middle of a room with a low ceiling. An old dusty room, I observe later. My palm is still resting on the wall, clenching it so tight because I am afraid it might disappear just like my feelings.

I stare and turn around myself a couple of times, like a dumb cat trying to catch its own tail…

The room is black. Its sofa and table and books are all black in colour with a slight shade of grey on them…this place is very old.

Without realizing why, I start running towards the door, to the way out; the exit. I swing the door open and I am on the roof of a high tower. I am about hundreds of meters off the ground.

Is this a trick?

Every corner is covered with webs…some pieces of broken glass and wood are lying here and there too.

What is this place?

Laughter; a wicked one shrills down my spine and ears and everything go back to a blur and black all over again.

I let out a wild scream and there is no way I can stay quiet anymore.

I deserve to have some piece of mind,
If not all the time, than at least once in a while,
I grew up into this world,
With no fears and no sins,
I was innocent as a bird,
Free and determined

Why can’t I just go back in time?
I would choose where I stand,
And with whom to be,
I would take my choices wisely
With such care and thought
As if was a matter of live or die

While I am here, I cannot comprehend,
The meaning of free will,
Everything is planned and I am,
Waiting anxiously, still,

Suffocation fills my lungs,
As though my world is full with smoke
Because of it I can’t breath
Or have my own clean space

Don’t I deserve to have a painting of my own?
One that I would frame and hold,
Or some beautiful flowers,
Which I would watch over,
And take good care.

Don’t I deserve to be human?
Am I not a human being?
Or am I just another isolated soul?

+ An attempt of trying to write poetry even though it didn't turn out to be one. Nonetheless, I wrote this when I was in an utterly crappy mood.