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The Chair
In the realm of my existence, a paradox unfolds—life's complexity masked by deceptive simplicity. Amidst the abyss of a dreamless slumber, I find myself in a void, devoid of light, a mental prison without escape. A lone chair occupies this desolate space, and the absence of doors or windows intensifies the solitude.
Delving into the recesses of my subconscious, a cacophony emerges—not the voices of kin or peers, but a chorus within my mind. I strive to drown their relentless echoes, resisting the urge to yield to their words that seek to wound without action. Though their whispers tempt the darker realms, I resist the allure of violence, embracing an uneasy tolerance.
Have I contemplated deeds of darkness? Indeed, for in this introspective journey, such thoughts serve as anchors to sanity. Yet, I've not tread the path of actual harm. As I navigate the shadows, confined to this dimly lit room, my senses rely solely on the echoes of my own voice, a feeble comfort in the vast emptiness.
The room, a barren canvas, houses nothing but an aged wooden chair and a faint nightlight casting feeble shadows. I wait for dawn, for in this dreamless state, fear is but an illusion that can only thrive on prior submission. To wake is to break the fragile equilibrium, and so I choose calm contemplation, resisting the disruptive forces that threaten to unravel my peace.
In a momentary lapse, a glimpse of white light startles me. Awakening, disoriented, I find myself in an unfamiliar kitchen, clutching an axe, surrounded by gruesome remnants. A vow shattered, my abdomen bears the scars of a reality I swore to avoid. Was this a dream, a manifestation of my inner turmoil?
As I open my eyes again, the black room persists, revealing the ephemeral nature of the kitchen horror. The boundaries between dreams and reality blur, leaving me questioning the fabric of my sanity in this perpetual cycle of introspection.
© Trystin M.D Rehfeld
Delving into the recesses of my subconscious, a cacophony emerges—not the voices of kin or peers, but a chorus within my mind. I strive to drown their relentless echoes, resisting the urge to yield to their words that seek to wound without action. Though their whispers tempt the darker realms, I resist the allure of violence, embracing an uneasy tolerance.
Have I contemplated deeds of darkness? Indeed, for in this introspective journey, such thoughts serve as anchors to sanity. Yet, I've not tread the path of actual harm. As I navigate the shadows, confined to this dimly lit room, my senses rely solely on the echoes of my own voice, a feeble comfort in the vast emptiness.
The room, a barren canvas, houses nothing but an aged wooden chair and a faint nightlight casting feeble shadows. I wait for dawn, for in this dreamless state, fear is but an illusion that can only thrive on prior submission. To wake is to break the fragile equilibrium, and so I choose calm contemplation, resisting the disruptive forces that threaten to unravel my peace.
In a momentary lapse, a glimpse of white light startles me. Awakening, disoriented, I find myself in an unfamiliar kitchen, clutching an axe, surrounded by gruesome remnants. A vow shattered, my abdomen bears the scars of a reality I swore to avoid. Was this a dream, a manifestation of my inner turmoil?
As I open my eyes again, the black room persists, revealing the ephemeral nature of the kitchen horror. The boundaries between dreams and reality blur, leaving me questioning the fabric of my sanity in this perpetual cycle of introspection.
© Trystin M.D Rehfeld
