It starts with the un-made bed. The mess on the floor. The papers stacked against the walls. The magazines never read, the books with their spines bent, littering my bedroom like literary stepping stones on the way to nowhere.

It's the musky scent in the room, from the rain and the weather and the dust. The dust that is encroaching upon every aspect of my being, so steadily that I think about the day when I will just become dust.

It's the left over pictures, the photographs never shared, never seen. It's the folly of youth and it's the loss of something more dearer than that-it's the slow decay of faith. Romance. Possiblity. Hope.

It's the hair in my eyes and the piece that never lays flat and the bump on my forhead that just won't go away- no matter how much I doctor it (with creams, soaps and treatments). It's the feeling of lethargy as I turn in bed, the feeling that there is nothing to get up for.

It's the sound of no music, no tv, no sound. The tick of the clock counting down another hour, another day... another year. Gone.

It's the click of the keys as I type- writing god knows what about nothing anyone cares about. It's distance and time and hurt and pain and desolation until it becomes

about

tissue and bone

strength and courage

and the need to be proven wrong

the need to be proven wrong that any of this matters. That all of this matters.

It's the need to be proven right.