All has left me. In this place lay plains of boredom and perpetual cynical tiredness, or even sadness. All that is left is an echo, of exchanged conversations, interesting as they seemed to be. I did warn myself. I have read over and over, that passion is like a shy flower that takes time to blossom, but passion dies too over time.
Are we not but an instrument of life and its game? To understand fully the sequence of events which led to this is to go back two years, when these eyes caught the glance of that shadow. Now that very shadow follows me forever, the harder I try to rid of it, the closer it gets. The shadow that blinks the light from inside. Funny. Or maybe it is I who is not seeing. Perhaps it is I who is blind, or blinded.
"Go when you please."
"I am going."
Then, it was a dark night, without moon or stars but in fleeting moments when the wind ripped apart the cloud covering to let through a brief gleam of moonlight.
Now, the night is dark again. No wind. Nothing. And I am back to black.