He is shattered, magnified and watched under a microscope. The mind is wondrous, and controls you rather than you control it. It makes your emotions run free, your burning anger fueled by memories, your longing desires driven by thought. And now, the mind is hanging on a tightrope, dangling by the edge.
His will isn't his own, his heart isn't where it belongs. He is constricted, confined, forced and contorted into things he cannot understand. His lips move in a silent prayer, one that becomes a story that strangly resembles his own.
The faults, the failures, the disappointments. The insomniac which humour and patience is the only limit he gives himself. Someone who had gotten so lost in the past, it was too difficuilt to find his way back into the present.
Like a blind man, he walks down endless paths in a large rainforest of memories, waiting for an opening, to unlock him from his solitary confinement in the figment of his wondrous mind.
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