And without you realize it,
something happens that you couldn't imagine of:
you have become an hazard to get rid of.
And so it is.
Welcome to the moor of my mind, to the bog of my mood. In this place you'll find reflections in a shattered mirror, shadows in an autumnal day, changing dark clouds in my mind's nocturnal sky. This place is such a stuff as dreams and nightmares are made on, a journey record which gives shape to a different world. Welcome to my world.
-Yes-, said Diogenes, -stay a little out of my sun. What I want you cannot give it to me. The labyrinth I believed to run has become a maze, an hypercube without a way out. My will failed me together with my aim, I forsook the battle and lost interest in its aftermath. The feeling of wasting my time peeled off, lay after lay dropping to the ground in unconcern, leaving the bare concept of a time usable just for activities ineffectual to the ultimate aim. Because all that we can do with this borrowed time is to consume it. To consume it waiting for the flame to die out once nothing of the wax has remained. Then we will get out of the maze.
I need someone else's nightmares. I have torn apart the dreamcatcher hanging on my bed, ma the horrendous things which come out just by night still avoid me, scared off by what gets out of my mind. Slowly, the strength fails me, while I wait for somebody to come and share its abyss with me, to let me feed on the majesty of its fears.