Why do I write? I think I do it just to move all my emotions to a paper. To have that paper be scribble on all those problems I have clogged up in my brain. Just to explain myself in words people see, and hear. Hear the thoughts that ramble through my mind that I find my thoughts speaking I can't hold or wait any longer to open the box in the back of my head. The box is from a woman named Pandora, one day she came to say hello and accidentally left it here. An it just always sat there in the corner-just that the blackness from that box, that emanates, darkens that corner more than any other.
I know its still there even though in my conscious state. But when I close my eyes and i start to have a dream, and it being a good one, the scene that my dreams take place in will always have that box-somewhere in the background, unknown to me, myself. Some times I wish that I would just walk over to the corner that obscure corner. That revolting corner should cease to exist in my mind, I want it to, but it does not. Just to pick up that box and throw it out the door, only if the voices inside my head hadn’t thrown away the key to unlock it, in a pile of needles i refuse go into.Just to pick up that box without it giving me splinters or crumbling apart in my hands from the looks of it being so shatterable, to let it already fester and dissolve in that corner. Having let it taint the floor with black moss that now grows on and around it, to sprout the beautiful flowers that lure you in to come closer also thrive on that ancient box and when you get close enough to those flowers they stray you with their deadly poisons.
Some, especially the flower named Malicious that resembles a charcoal version of a Lycoris, mimics my loved ones, uses their voices to say such disgraceful things to me, describing me in vulgar, sinful, impure names and actions. The other is called Deleterious that resembles a midnight blue version of Calla Lilies, and it weeps a black smoke that dark creatures linger inside when it expanse. Black vines can be seen to bloom up and around the walls with thorns as long as a lions’ claw black and a white tip protrude into that corner seeping into every crevice as if a thousand eyes in the barrier. The barrier that lets me be tortured by this thing.
Baleful and Sinister are the voices embedded in the crevasses that well from the box, torture me, tell me lies that I know are not true but some how I believe them. I hear them in my mind, next to my ear whispering, feeling Baleful breathing over my shoulder even though as I stare at the box in front of me, they make the hairs on my neck stand up without my permission to do so behind me. Sinister tells my future, my false future of all the ominous things that shall happen to me and tell me about the impalements he has done to the dead. Why did Pandora leave this here? Why won’t she come back?
When I’m awake I can, for the most part escape that pernicious box in that garden of death growing corner, until I fall asleep I notice the garden growing bigger and larger than it was last time I had closed my eyes for than two minutes. It still continues to grow, more and more, slowly but surely suffocating me. Making the room smaller than it was, the more it grows the more i’m frightened that at one point going have to pick that box up, break down that door and throw it into the abyss of nothing, to be no more. Am I alone in this tribulation of horror? Am I the only one with a box of death in my mind? I hope not.