The Macabre Waltz

Untitled

(by Niavara)

Sometimes the paranoia creeps in. Like shadows in the corners of your eyes, like the chill of night in the winter.

Do they know?

Would they kill me?
Why wouldn’t they kill me?

It happens in the worst of times. When I need the clarity to fight. To cast. To defend. I come up short. I imagine I may not be so lucky in the future.

It’s disorienting and time gets so distorted… short… long…. non-linear—- and vision—- until everything is a chaotic mess that even an artist couldn’t appreciate. Voices ring through my head, children crying, people screaming… but they’re all so distant. So far. Yet so loud that they pierce straight through me.

It’s a dark, wet cave. I cannot see, but with my ears. And the only sound is sadness. And a single drop of water.

Sometimes I feel that I’m somewhere else. As though my entire life actually happened elsewhere at another time. These voices… are they family? That couldn’t be, could it? Why do they feel so real? So incredibly real. Am I crazy?

I don’t …
feel

crazy.

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Andria

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