In my fainted dreams made of smoke and spells, I saw my image reflected in the mirror of death. It seemed as if I were a dead shadow made of illusions. My slumber bound me to chains of darkness, and I couldn’t escape from my dungeon of despair.
In my non-existence, the quietness numbed me with a spell of sorrow. I was born to die alone, in scorn and desolation. My residence was made of teardrops and blood. I wished I could have kept my dreams in my treasure chest, but every time I tried, they would vanish.
Hence, I began to pretend that I didn’t need to desire or dream. I could have achieved everything I wanted if only my fate could allow me to do it. Nevertheless, solace and bliss were forbidden castles to my decrepit presence, and I could only find myself in an endless requiem.
Lies were birds of freedom for my heart, and I slumbered as a way of searching for myself. Indeed, I received an invitation from the realm of nothingness, under whose influence my main achievement was only destruction and decay. I was becoming a candle castle collapsing under the tension of an impetuous and merciless wind.
My past memories were little daggers puncturing my heart incessantly without any compassion. Maybe it was all an endless nightmare conspiring against me but the vivid remembrances were slowly annihilating me each instant of my non-life.
In my fainted dreams, I lived in grief surrounded by the shadows of my past self. I was not afraid to suffer and mourn days and nights. Time didn’t matter anymore because there was no metamorphosis in me. I perpetually wept like a statue in a cemetery.
Death and nightmares were all that remained as gifts of the underworld. I surrendered to a quiet acceptance of my irreversible demise. I ceased to dream, embracing my everlasting lamentation. I was fading like incense through a sinister wind.
Elisabetta
