Frigid

I'm sitting in this corner of the room, unaware of my own self. The curtains on the window are staring at me. Every piece of this room is giving me questionable glances, without moving from their place. When I look at the vase, it asks me about the flowers I'd promised to bring. Bookshelf asks me to go through some pages and that fountain pen on the table pleads with me to refill it, to colour the whole stack of paper blue. I don't want to look at anything present here. Each and everything is asking me to move for them as if I'm the odd one here, a human who isn't supposed to choose their corner.

How much I wish to become a thing, non-living, a commodity which people wouldn't notice when they enter here. I wish I could mix my skin with these walls, my eyes on the glass of the window. Stoic-Detached-Devoid.

I try to gather all those drafts lying around me, but my heart wants me to tear all these into pieces. I can't bear the sight of this stack I've been hauling for ages. I see the blue light rising from these pages and a distorted figure stands before me. I can see my blood and tears in its mouth. My letters are in its hands. It leaps over me with its crooked smile and an unknown monster starts to reside in me.