Trapped.

These creatures are so strange. They spend eternities lifting you up on material-emotional pedestals and then they weigh you down with the baggage you take from their tears, their hopes, their dreams, their expectations, the projections of what-ifs that flicker on the slideshows in quiet rooms with no walls, no floor tiles, just blank darkness.

These creatures are crayon-coloured chameleons whose colours grow intense and blinding and hot on sandpaper, you touch it and it sears your fragile fingertips, while you wish you could soften the edges of these distorted images with watercolour paint. These creatures shackle your soul, haunting your thoughts in the lonely echoes of your solitude - filling the waiting heart inside you with sloshing liquid that drowns you with heartache and tears.

These creatures see you through their eyes, while you look back through yours - and you see the world differently, different worlds parallel to each other in different universes that sit side by side but a whole prayer away - and these creatures, so strange, speak in different languages with flaming words that you see scorched into your irises when you stare at yourself in the mirror and see the creatures within.



These creatures haunt us, binding us into the inalienable forms of other creatures, planting seeds of doubt and inferiority that scar us for the eternities our mortality recognises, and you know this as you hush the spirit within your soul to be silent, be still, hide herself for the creatures to pass - the more power you give these creatures the more you stand to lose in war - and someday she will no longer be trapped within the confines of your soul.