In the back of my head, there is a world, my world. Now my world doesn't exist, but it's as real as anything can be. Not literally of course, real in a figurative sense. Like how your dreams are real in that they reflect your inner turmoil by providing a gateway to the dark depths of your subconscious mind.

In my world, it is always snowing. Not that beautiful, white, fluffy snow that ties together a perfect Christmas season. No, that shrill, freezing snow that whips your face at three in the morning while you're standing in your back doorway waiting for your new dog to leave a "Christmas gift" in the middle of your perfect yard. That kind of snow that stings and reddens your cheeks as you've finally gained the will to take out the trash that's been rotting your apartment for a week. That kind of snow.

In my world, every body's mean, except for the people who aren't, but they don't exist so they don't matter. Of course none of this exists so nothing really matters beyond the fact that everything matters. But I'm getting away from the point I have yet to make.

Among these people there is a man. He lives in a house that's down the street from every direction, and every day he shovels snow that isn't really there, so he can drive to a job he doesn't really have. Everyday he dies a little more inside, and everybody understands, but no one can really know.

Among these people, there is also a woman. She lives in the house down the street from every direction. Every day she watches in silence as the man shovels snow that isn't really there so he can drive to a job he doesn't really have. Then she spends her day cleaning a house that doesn't need to be cleaned, for the sake of guests who won't really be coming. Every day she dies a little inside, and everybody understand, but no one can really know.

The man and the woman have a little girl. She doesn't really get out much. She just sits in her room in the house that's down the street from every direction, and plays with the dolls she wished she had, along with her friends that could never truly be there. Every day, she dies,and everyday she is born again, and everybody knows, but no one can really understand. She hides from the man, from the world.

Down the street in every direction there is a boy who see's everything, for it is his world. He sits patiently on the edge of everything and looks down at the subjects of his poorly constructed farce. He watches the man shovel snow that isn't there and go to a job he doesn't have. He watches the woman clean the house that doesn't need to be cleaned, for the guests who aren't coming. He watches the girl play with dolls she wished she had, along with friends who could never truly be there. He watches the man and the woman as they die a little everyday, and the little girl as she takes her last breath by night and first by day break. Everyday, he watches, and he knows, and he understands. For this is how it has always been.

But it doesn't really matter, because none of this really exists, it's not real. Not the man, not the woman, not the girl. It's all just a twisted glimpse into a tormented subconscious. An introduction to a story I'll never tell. A horrid dream that we build for ourselves and never seem to wake up from. A reality that only makes sense in the fact that it doesn't. That dreadful face in the halls that no one can keep from staring at. A reality built through a broken, twisted view of the world but one that may be more exact than our own.

It's always the worst of nightmares, that keep us trapped. Cowering in the dark corners of our perverted minds.

My world is where I go to hide. It's where I escape, where everything escapes me. My world is a breeding ground for all that is loathsome and corrupt in my fading self. In my lies, in my foulness justified only by the fact that I am what the world made me. Just another dreadful face to stare at in the halls, and everybody knows, but no one can ever understand.

Strangely comforting, isn't it?