The walls… The walls and I’m looking at the tiles. The rivulets of collected steam as runs in races chasing and colliding with eachother down invisible tracks. The steam rising across the room water vapour so thick I could cut it with this blade. This blade… calling me my only friend. Just one cut, just let it touch, pierce, prick, open… open me and let the words bleed black, an outpouring of grief of frustration of need, let it out and get free. The mirror is misted over, draw a smile when you frown, a mask for the world to see. Here in this room I’m just breaking, emotions shattered glass rip through me. That blade calling my name. Its sweet melody so intoxicating, so free. Drip drop drip the sink tap not turned off correctly. A gush like steady comforting rain from the shower,turning this room into a mysterious foggy jungle. Let me be the explorer on my way to higher depths come closer sweet blade my treasure awaits, the pleasure awaits, with bated breaths I long for your touch sweet blade. Rip these seams apart, out pour words of black, leave me with colour, never look back. Run away run away, no more screams in the night. No more exhaustion as I watch those first lights. Blade touches skin, breaking the seams, rip me apart cascading ebony tides,and I’m the warrior of my ship at the helm my own realm… cascading faster a flurry of black drip drop drip I hear the water drip. Must correctly turn the tap off but the shower sings to me of mists and times forgotten calling me of a sweet caress. I drop the blade in wonder at the showers calling, but its to late and I’m just stalling. Pick my blade back up, you sweet unassuming wand. The river runs black, down my skin out my hand. Oh sweet blade take these rivers of black, take my outpouring and never look back… I watch the gatherings of mist form collectively on the tiles and as they over fill and tip downwards racing eachother, weaving and colliding to their destination at the bottom, a collection of fallen vapour droplets, do they dance like the ones singing sweet lullabies in the air? A deep breath in and do my lungs fill with their songs? Come on sweet blade… flick that shower off, we’ve a world to step back into…

The mind of a writer is a strange and wondrous thing, how our every day can turn into visions and metaphors of lost worlds and fantastical realms beyond comprehension. How those that live in reality only would think us a mindfuck of lsd enhanced nightmares and wonder at our mental states as we step through life in a glorious technicolor of dreamscapes finding wonder and enchantment in the normal every day and mundane… just my personal thoughts anyway…