I walk dark streets in the deepest shadows of my thoughts. There is no light from the sky, but sometimes the windows glimmer with feeble light, or there is something, not always wood, burning nearby. In that wicked light, the street will glisten blackly from a recent rain.
It’s always warm here. Even when it is cold. I do not know these streets, this place, as well as I think I should. It can change so quickly. And it is influenced by so many outside forces. There are entities that walk here. Many are fictional beings that do not frighten my normal self; some are real and terrify me even in the light of day.
Some of the entities disappear after awhile. Some have existed for nearly forty years. The “thing in my closet” is very hard to destroy. I have it greatly weakened, but those times, when my body is attacking itself, it seizes its chance to invade the worst of my nightmares. One day, though, it will be completely gone. I know how to strike back, hard.
My path is never the same. A street can very easily become a door leading to a dungeon in the blink of an eye. There are times when my imagination beats me and then I can smell the foulness of this shade of mine. Stale cigarette smoke, illness, and death. In my weakest of times, the ghastly odor has caused me to physically rise and race to the outdoors for fresh air and the scent of healing; the gardens. Just to write these words… I must go, now.
