The colors in my brain make more sense to me than the words that occupy the spaces in between them.

They form the story of evil and heavenly that is printed on the pages that represent my life.

The colors smooth out the fine lines that separate all I know, and everything is clouded in a fog so heavy that it suffocates me.

I can not tell the lights from the darks and soon all of my white socks are pink because the red that is flashing so obviously to everyone else is utterly blinding to me. So blinding that I can not even tell it is there.

The sounds in my ears make more sense to me than the words that occupy the spaces in between them.

They form the story of illness and health that is printed on the pages that represent my life.

The sounds pound in my ear drums with a painful heaviness that I welcome, because it is easier to listen to the nonsense, than to the screaming infant in the world next door, or the deafening silence of the father whose wife’s soul just fell out of her.

The shapes in my view make more sense to me than the words that occupy the spaces in between them.

They form the story of simplicity and difficulty that is printed on the pages that represent my life.

The shapes obstruct my view and distract my brain. For they provide the perfect protection from what I do not want to face.

The old withered man who is suffering in a blank room with only a photograph to keep him company.

The old ghostly woman who secretly accompanies him, insisting death upon him for the sake of their rejoice.