At times I'm left to wonder about the details I find pertinent enough to record; the smallest oversight; something unnecessary entirely that, often, doesn't even fit into the context and thus creates disruption to an overall flow I may have found. The only time I seem to find an actual train of thought is at three in the morning; the silence of darkness deafening; the untarnished perfection of shadows and beams of light from whatever external forces planted themselves in the vicinity. I find myself there, amongst that perfection; a thoughtful hollow that eerily sees the black and white of every visual surrounding. Almost as though I were someone else, my mentality would transport itself to the shaded forest where I walked on thorns and fallen branches with tattered feet; a searching for peace that only amplified the fact that I had none. Every breath of wind was a whisper; every squeak of a bat, a haunting; my mind reckless as sanity laughable.
And then I would wake from whatever plagued me; unearthed and barren; the mere mention of my name a foreign sound, unrecalled--I was me no longer.
