Deep in the recess of the mind we find what we hide. Full of richness of thought and delving into the darkest parts we hold inside. This little reservoir of truth that leads to the opening of the armoire of proof that we are but shadows of what we can be. And some of us are fortunate enough to find ways to break free—of these chains that burgeon and bind us with no key. But too often the story left untold is that of who’s soul is left to rot in winter’s cold.
— Sir Winston Lear
If I could share the sweet melody that swirls in the mist of thought that fills this unholy void you might be moved. You might even feel so much as to be inspired or if you are very lucky, shed a tear. You might reminisce on a past version of yourself, connecting in thought and time to a specific place or feeling. You might smile from such nostalgia or shrink from the lingering fear. You might find yourself transported for a brief moment of time to a distant world rife with imagination, and dreams, and desires.
You might even go so far as to believe this fantasy I’ve created for you, but in the end that’s all it is, a lie. A lie I’ve created that is so deeply rooted in my cerebrum that to remove it, or change it, would mean the death of all that is me. I can fight the lie, or give into the lie, but I cannot kill the lie. There is no truth in these pale cold words because there is no truth inside. This hollow heart lies captured in a cage of a barren being. The tune you hear is faint and fleeting; the lingering lie of this cacophonous cry.