There’s a storm that rages in silence, rolling in as a gray morning mist before darkening into relentless thunderclouds. It moves slowly, seeping into every crack, until the world is drowned in shadows. Every breath feels like inhaling smoke from an unseen fire—thick, heavy, and suffocating. The once-vivid world fades into a muted haze, like a painting drained of color. Shadows stretch long and deep, swallowing what little light remains.
Waking is a battle against an invisible gravity. The bed, once a refuge, transforms into a prison of leaden chains, the sheets pressing down with the weight of a thousand unspoken burdens. Thoughts drift like broken ships lost at sea, directionless and splintered. A simple act—swinging one leg over the edge—becomes an impossible journey, as if the floor has fallen away into a bottomless chasm.
There is a house inside—a house with no windows, no doors. The walls are tall and unyielding, their surfaces covered in scrawled messages too faint to read yet too persistent to ignore. The air in this place is stale, the silence deafening. Time loses all meaning here, each minute dragging into eternity.
The garden beyond those walls is barren now. Where once flowers bloomed with wild abandon, now there is only cracked earth and withered stems. Hands tremble as they dig into the soil, desperate to plant new seeds. But the earth refuses to yield, the seeds brittle in the hand before they ever touch the ground. The sun, distant and aloof, hides behind gray clouds that never break.
There are no villains in this landscape—no faces to blame, no battles to be fought. Instead, there is only the slow drip of poison into unseen roots, numbing everything it touches. It is a thief without form, stealing quietly in the night. Its hands take memories of joy, of energy, of life itself, leaving behind only emptiness.
The mind becomes a labyrinth, every turn leading to dead ends. Hopes that once soared now crumble into dust at the slightest touch. The smallest joys—a book once loved, a favorite song—become hollow echoes of themselves, drained of the magic they once held. Even the stars seem dimmer, distant pinpricks that flicker and fade before they can be grasped.
Yet even in this darkness, there is sometimes a faint spark. A star barely visible in the vast expanse of night. It is fragile, trembling on the brink of being extinguished, but it endures. It whispers of resilience—a quiet, persistent truth buried beneath the noise of despair.
The storm, though vast, is not endless. Some seeds, though buried deeply, can still grow. They need time, patience, and light that will eventually break through the thickest clouds. And when the dawn comes, as slow as it may be, its light will seem all the more brilliant against the darkness it leaves behind.