A Billion Burning Dreams

Mania-Melancholia I. There is a stormcloud that follows me around, a shadow that sits inside my shadow. A veil that blurs the world into a stupor; a filter, static and grainy. Rose-colored glasses with lenses so dark they make the eyes wish they were blind. This storm holds no rain to nourish, only murky uncertainty. It sulks — pregnant and bloated — with doleful diseases, stillborn spirit that blots out the eyes with ink so they cannot see beauty, love or any semblance of vibrancy. My sun has been punched out. Bruised so black and blue that it cannot feel its own light; that it wishes it were the moon so it could sleep.

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