I sit in my room. It is dark and cold. This corner is even colder. This corner is my sitting place and I am just as cold. There are candles, but they are not lit because I like the cold. I crave it as much as the candles crave warmth. Cold is what I am, who I am, what I’ve become; it is my reality.
I paint the corners with wetness. The wetness corrodes the wall, smells of rotten wood and sulfur. It eats at the walls like the infinite thoughts of darkness which eat at me.
Labyrinths upon labyrinths.
Levels descending upon levels.
All leading to nothingness because there is no end. Purposelessness, that which built the tunnels, which constructed the inverted skyscraper, fills the air I breathe and floods all corridors.
On the surface, I appear to be a motionless statue, a hollow gargoyle staring into an oblivion of blank whiteness, but I am not. I wander the inverted skyscraper and its innumerable depths of blackness with no clues and no direction. Is purposelessness my Purpose? All I know is that it is cold here and I need it.
Sometimes I hear echoing footsteps in these halls heading towards me, but I walk away from their direction. Their invasion shocks me for this is my inverted skyscraper.
My blurred eyes refocus. I am sitting in my room. It is dark and cold. This corner is even colder. Wetness on my face and the white wall and I do not know why.