My Melancholy Madness.

In wandering the recesses of my melancholy dreams, I feel my skin snagging on thorns I cannot see. They cut and pull, wrap around my limbs and hopes and tug tightly until I cannot breathe. Where has everybody gone? Is this the silence that I’ve been craving?

It’s silence that I’ve found, anyway, here in my refuge. I can’t pull back on the vines any more so I give in and slide to the floor, my bloody knees and fingers on the knotted wood. Still the vines twist and tighten, each strangling me quietly, pulling away from my heart until I begin to believe my body will just tear away from it altogether. What good is a beating heart without limbs to propel it forward?

Sitars and violins play together with spoons and – is it? – a banjo somewhere in the distance and for some reason this calms me.

Loosen your hold, I beg you. Let me breathe again. It’s all I ask.

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