I stand in a cold dark cave. Its pitch black. I cannot make out a single thing around me. A cold, wet smell reeks in the cave. A smell that's somewhere between a pleasant scent and a bad odour. As wet and cold as that of the summer monsoons. Enchanting. Yet also reminds one of cold clingy blood forming a pool and crystallizing slowly outside some butcher's shop in a small village in the mountains, where the heavy moist fog hangs insistently.
I snap back from my thoughts. I'm falling short of breath as if I'm trapped in a glass bottle with hundreds of eyes staring at me while I fall short of breath, while I stagger across the slippery side surface of the bottle. Eyes tear down my existence by their gaze piercing through me, in anticipation of not what would happen to me but rather with an excited flicker to watch death overcome.
Like one watches a house fly, it's tiny wings being a beautiful prismatic film through which the morning sun filters it's rays as it bangs itself against the window repeatedly in.hopes of going someplace it's never been to before. A destination unknown, but a destination nonetheless.
I see a beam of light and a few muffled distant sounds of hurried footsteps and people calling out my name as I zone out into a slumber I had never known before. Headed on a journey I had never set out on before. With no destination.
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