You think you are alone. You have too many thoughts to truly be so.

Many thoughts are sealed away, and yet still their noise sur­rounds you as a shroud of im­pen­e­tra­ble agony.

You hate them.

You grab them with a thought, and twist them, glare at them.

Their scream­ing does­n’t stop. It never does.

Be­cause it is not them who are scream­ing, but you who are hear­ing their screams, for in the end, you are the screamer, and they are mere wisps fleet­ing through your shad­owy mind.

And it’s not their fault.

It’s not their fault that you have crushed them down so they can­not breath; stuffed them into shapes they were never meant to fit in­side; hid­den them away where they can but glare at you through the night, when all is quiet, but for your thoughts.

You walk up the stairs of air, and upon the ceil­ing, you sleep, their voices call­ing…