So you wake up and you find yourself lying on the ground, covered with dust and gravel. You would wonder what had happened, but... at that point… you could not care less. You're already armed to the teeth with nothing but a shroud that you convince yourself would heal you from all wounds, protect you from all harm. You should have known better… should have known it's just a fucking shroud.

Your muscles strain enough to pull your body straight up… your senses are functioning now and the stench is killing you. You meant something, you were valuable as a person and the light up ahead is reminding you that when it's dark your senses grow stronger and light becomes noticeable. You know that if you walk towards the light you'll probably find your way out of this but… you don't want to. You don't wanna heal or recover… You wanna turn around, crawl further into the darkness until you fix it. This is what's going to make you heal. This is what you want. But the further you crawl into the dark, the colder it is, the lonelier you feel… and you can sense the fear leeching under my skin, growing on your heart that this may never happen. Yet you keep trying because it's your moto: to live life without regrets; to keep trying until you die.

But you know how it is… when you're in a dark room you can do one of three things. You can either walk out into the other well lit room, you can lie down and think, or you can fall asleep.

Well, you're done thinking for the night… maybe sleep will be your sanctuary… where you'll forget how you've fucked up.

Sweet dreams.