Void
It was blinding, furiously blinding. I thought I might be able to reach the sun infront of me, finally being able to embrace the heat. There wasn’t any heat. Nor was there any sun I thought there is.
It was messy. I felt it addled. Confused, puzzled all in one go, like the crossing rays of an aged television with a bad reception. I couldn’t grab any tentacles of it, it was, as good as empty.
It was vintage, the smell of old papers, the ink that diffused into the rough fibres of the parchment. I could see where the writer left off from where his fountain pen was. The melted wax making landmarks over the oak desk, the writer’s handwriting was all that left.
It was… everything, yet nothing.
