I view my life as if it were a painting.

Or maybe a storybook, I'm not quite sure.

I wish to feel again, but instead, I am left numb.

The same days play over and over in my head;

the things I should have done,

the times when I was happy, 

I try to make up things to make myself feel better,

the storeys I imagine to try and remember what it means,

storeys of friends, 

of lovers,

of kindness.

I apologize to my ceiling for all the times that I have stared at it awkwardly while my eyes leaked salt.

My eyes leaked salt as I contemplate this mess we seem to have made,

but then I recall that one day, in the not so distant future,

nothing will matter;

the end of an era as it were