Oh, dear dreary darkness of this dreadful life. Will thou not let the drudgery of thy mind be washed away with the rays of the sun? Let it shine through the cracks of the walls thou built within thine head, let the rays with their own force, break apart these walls, and let in the fresh air. This damp and deeply pungent scent in the air, banish it with the warmth of thy mind opening up to accept the golden rays. Oh, dear dreary darkness of this dreadful life…when will thee let in the light?
Aye, this eternal sadness of the mind inflicts upon thee a sickness, the curse of a broken heart. The agony becomes ubiquitous, flowing into every crack and imperfection of thy mind. Oh, if only our minds were immaculate, such that the despair, desperately looking for a hiding place, would find none and slip off the surface like water on glass.
Love dies the death of a miscreant, yet with it lies dead the hero, Trust. We never fall for the villain’s treachery twice, but when the death of a dream takes place, when all Trust is lost, what will aid this broken heart? When all Trust is lost, with whom do we grieve this shattered heart? Say a day comes in our life, when we find we cannot even bank upon ourselves, what is it that we must do? Must we sink into the ground and die a desired death?
If we were such stuff that dreams are made of, then the empty heaviness of the heart would not matter. The heart would lie silent, subdued by the stars sparkling in the night sky. The whispers in the air would bring comfort, a longing to live a wonderful life, even if the life demands we must live it alone. Dreams would carry us in their arms, sing us a lullaby, and soften our eyelids with faint traces of star-dust. Aye, but the dreams have broken, leaving us empty and cold. Why live this life with a broken heart and shattered dreams? Why go on?
Alas, the heart lies tattered and torn, in the darkness of a new moon night. The dreams lie strewn haphazardly, shivering on the snow-covered ground. All that is heard echoing in the silence of the depths of time is a faint whimper, then deafening silence once again…