I don't know what I am doing

          The tiny flames consuming the match danced around her fingers. Her eyes flickered with the fading light devouring, hungry, the deathly-ness of the play. Before the fire drowned itself she took a sip of her beer. She carefully put down the bottle, as it was pitch black now. The wind was harsh that night, a fierce force fighting the worn out city. The rain was shy at the time, tired after a long week of deluging. She grabbed one more match and lighted it. This time she let it dispel faster.

Blind and quiet, she let the world in. Four bells cried afar over the raging breeze.

I'm an old soul and I am tired. If God were merciful, She would have taken me long ago. Oh, Almighty, I pray to you now. I pray that you let my spirit rest. Listen to me, old friend, I am an old soul and I am tired.

She took one last sip and threw the bottle away from her bed. It fell silently on a pile of clothes. She crawled under the quilt and made herself as small as her body allowed. A single tear dared to adventure its way down her nose and to the mattress.

She stifled a sob and hold on to herself as hard as she could. Slumber took her under its wings before the bells stroke 4:02.

There's nothing here for you

I sit here, with a blank paper,

no words, no ideas.

I sit here, but I am long gone.

My fingers tap the wooden table, they play a song.

Away, far far away my mind is hidden, lost.

My ears listen the rain shouting through the window.

My eyes watch thousands of water drops falling from the sky like dead birds,

fast and cold.

And I sit there, in a rather empty room, alone,

with a blank paper,

with no words, no ideas.

A dream

I don’t exist.

I am not human, I am not a being.

My life isn't real.

I am nothing but a train of thoughts.

My past is a movie. My future nonexistent. I feel nothing. I am empty.

My mind is muddy, blurred, detached.

I do not exist.

I, me, can’t feel a thing. I process fictional lifes, feelings that are not mine. I borrow emotions so I don’t need to have my own.

I am not real. How could I be?

I am a hollow vessel, sometimes filled by outlander souls.

I do not exist.
I am not real.
How could I be?