Truth’s Weaver

The morning light darkened another shade. The walls, which were sea-foam green, have fallen ill. The faded color borders an oval silhouette beside my closet. The contrast drips mournfully in the background of my unfocused vision. My money-tree, Eliza, sags their pitiful leaves. Some have already withered away. Most hang on hope for water. The foolish thing must not even realize that rain has no chance of resurrecting their barren roots. Their salvation lies in my useless fingers. I wonder if I were to hold my breath long enough then would I too fade and sag as my little plant? These trees are, according to the internet, the best for those incapable of taking care of most things. I had thought it would be a good stepping stone for buying a fish. I always wanted a fish. Eliza begged me for water. I decided I could wait for the fish.

Another cloud mercifully floated across the sun’s painfully bright rays. Another shade of darkness. Superstition is silly, but I find comfort in this new world of muffled light. I can’t help but hope that this is it. The final moment in which the clouds finally catch the sun. Oh, Fenrir take your revenge. Eventually the light will fade. The plants will wither. Then they will die. I would die soon after. If it were inevitably close, death I mean, then I would not feel obligated to leave the comfort of my sheets. I do not fell obligated to leave the comfort of my sheets.

The comforter warps around my body in a way I would imagine a true lover would. I have never felt the warmth of another comparable to that of my blankets. The scent of my musk embedded within the fabric comforts my creature mind. This is safe. This is warm. My curtains shiver with a summer wind’s gentle touch. It beckons my stubborn body to rise, but my hazy mind protests.

In contrast to my body, my eyes were restless. Just a few more moments of quiet blinking and the morning fog away will be swept away. The alarm clock flashes 12:00 in and out with a reddish hue. Boxes flood the floor of my room; however, even in the morning light I see the blue, leather diploma-holder sitting atop the nearest box. I tried to shift my eyes away, but my body protested further disruptions. I had no choice but to give in to its demands. Moving my head proved more difficult than the thought of staring at the last four years of my life.

The curse of youth arrives hand-in-hand with an expectation of wisdom. Even Hercules was given his twelve labors. Nepotism must be nice.

I guess there is time left to spend before it thankfully fades. The years sear my silhouette onto the wall. As if I were just another patch of discoloration. The brighter shades slowly seeping out of me like a dish rag left in the sun. Every cloud that has blocked me refuses to part. Leave me be clouds. Move on, or strike me down. Fenrir, you may have your revenge. My flames have all but simmered. Dull embers remain.