Silver and Red

One. . two. . three. . how many do I need?

Tick tock. .  tick tock, how many more hours before I can sleep?  

Paper-scissors-stone, which among them do I need? 

            There is nothing more harder than to be awake and thinking, while the word is still and sleeping, and there is nothing more tragic than a tumult inside that will never cease. I'll probably laugh if the ocean will claim that he is the deepest blue. Ha-Ha! Come on Ocean Blue, there are still a lot of men that are bluer than you! 

            If you have made to step out in your room this morning, then you belong to the lucky ones as most of us can't even get up in our beds, can't even zone out in our heads. A very dark place  but there's a comforting sense that it is safer here than to dwell outside. The darkness, the void, and the space inside our head, it is a retreat place when the immediate reality is becoming too sick to handle.
 

            The world outside is full of hooligan noise so we just shut it all behind the door. But what a great betrayal, the silence was a killer too. This silence, that we thought to be a cradling shade, was actually a hollow surface, a dwelling place of behemoths. We kept it all inside, letting them to fester quietly, until we choke on the words we never said and drowned in the thoughts we never shared. It's terrifying, strange, and beautiful. Something not everyone understands.  This silence inside is full of defeat, a silence that drives us around the bend while happiness is still an abstract.  
 

            "I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in." - V. Woolf
 

             This crumpled paper and tormented handwriting, this is what you called a literature of a sad poet. But this is not totally an art because it is actually called falling apart. And there is no beauty in being broken. I am not sure which is worse, a broken heart or a broken mind. Others will say "you're going to be okay" but repairing a broken mind is not easy as repairing a broken toy. And breathing on a corrupted lung is not easy as inhale-exhale. And living in this mad world is not easy as playing a peek-a-boo. Maybe Alice is wrong, this is not wonderland. I should have just followed Ophelia in the stream, with daisies in the chest and clothes spreading like a mermaid tail, I should have just followed her. 
 

            There is silence in the presence of those unjustly punished by the society. There is silence in between those uttered words and there is also the total silence in those unsaid ones. There is silence in the midst of the explosions inside our head. There is the silence of defeat. There is silence in the perpetuating pandemonium. There is silence when death takes its young. And there is silence in requiem. 
 

            It is now 3am and I want to draw with silver and paint with red. Sshhh. . .