Art is an essential part of our existence; it enriches our lives and opens our minds. So what do you do when it becomes a source of unhappiness?
The tyrannical heat of the summer wafted through Eden’s windows and seeped into her bed sheets. She felt the adherence of the silk on her legs and little trails of sweat raced across her neck, mingling the aromatic smell of her hair with a salty sharpness.
I want to stay awake, I’m happy to have woken up. (I want to go to sleep, I never want to wake up.) Each breath comes easily, my lungs are unclouded. (Each breath is a battle, my lungs are flooding.)
Slivers of Time in a glass full of Empty— sharp, jagged remnants of earlier daze. Wishing in earnest for noble Nepenthe to douse all the visions and set them ablaze. ((The rulebook has changed. We’re letting it fray.))
I was woken up by my sister. She told me our mom had tried to burn me alive in my sleep (and I swear I could smell it, the smoke).