sleepless-hollow

 Here I am, in the field of burning flowers and broken dreams. But the flowers are not burning, and the dreams are not shattered. Everything lies in place, as if there is no crawling monstrosity smashing its way through the twisted fabric of reality. I am sitting there, silently pondering the existence of such anomalies. And then, the world bursts into flames. The oceans dry in seconds, the plants wilt and die, and mankind lies on the cusp of nonexistence. But is death the end, or the beginning of a greater adventure; into rebirth? Or is death truly the end of all things, an end to everything one can accomplish in their short lives? Everythin

They ask me what I see. I see white capped beaches, ebbing and flowing tides. The sun reflects across the water like a thousand glistening rubies. It is beautiful. They smack me across my face, telling me that I can't see these things. That all a person like me can see is the darkness around me. The darkness I write. The darkness I draw. I am the darkness, they tell me. But I laugh at them. They are blinded by what's right in front of them. They see only darkness as that, an enemy of light. I want them to see as I see, hear as I hear... I want them to know the beauty I see. They don't understand. They see the dark lines on the paper, the blac