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I sometimes want to stare into the sun, hoping it will burn my iris, killing away its gift of sight. I would then etch in the darkness tales I've never told before; I would run endlessly in the abyss that was burned into me; I would tumble upon death yet be unaware of it. I would live a thousand lives, each day a new tale, forgetting what the world looked like. Would that be the bliss I've wanted? Shunned from enjoying the colours, Now that I realise they've all been buried in my socket. Would I still think the way I do, or would it distort the colour of my thoughts? I could be suspicious of every last thing that comes my way. I would be scared of the wind, the rain, the dirt, and the clay. I would live in my head a little more. A place that I dread, eventually trying to find home in a stranger land. The house that I built crumbles into pieces as the smoke blows out and the people of the land let out a jarring roar. Outnumbered bruised calloused I try and recall what life looked like but I have been banished from seeing life I led. I stand upon the hill of sin and wait for the clouds to bestow the sun's glory. I walk away from the shade, mustering the courage to look up, yet each time the sun promises me darkness, my eyes perceive the oblivion. The oblivion that I coloured with broken crayons I found along the paths of a tormenting journey, an oblivion that I wouldn't let go of. Therefore, I lower my gaze and walk towards the very reason for my existence. Umber Oblivion

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